


All Is Fair In Love and War

by MaggieWilde8



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Romance, Difficult Relationship, Drug Dealing, Drug Use, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Falling In Love, First Contact War, Interspecies Awkwardness, Interspecies Sex, Pre-Mass Effect 1, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Unresolved Emotional Tension, like super slow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2018-08-11 10:31:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 35
Words: 100,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7887817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaggieWilde8/pseuds/MaggieWilde8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alliance Engineer Laurel Westfahl makes a catastrophic mistake that costs her squadmates, her career and nearly her life. 10 years after the First Contact War, 2167, by chance she meets one of her old turian captors. A rather complicated love story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Mass Effect Universe and its awesome characters belongs to Bioware. Just writing for fun/cure my obsession/practise my writing skills. 
> 
> Story is quite brutal at the beginning so discretion is advised. The romance is not of the fluffy disney kind. So no bunnies and rainbows unfortunately. 
> 
> All feedback is welcome (including grammatical mistakes!). Enjoy reading!

 

* * *

 

She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t smell. She couldn’t think. The last vision she had were of the walls crumbling around her.

_They must have found us._

She tried to move her body – there was a sudden sharp pain in her arm.

_Probably broken._

They were counting on her. If she’d blown it, her ass was on the line. And that was more than likely. She only had four years experience in the Alliance Navy since joining at twenty. Yet her dedication and commitment earned her at least the more respectable role of bomb disposal expert. And this was why she was here. It’d been nearly three months since the First Contact War started, since they first met an extra-terrestrial species. As warned by countless scientists, media and popular fiction beforehand, these sentient species were not friendly in the slightest.

The Alliance Navy on a top-secret mission had sent her with three others, one her superior, to disarm a probe armed with nuclear fusion warheads. Why had it been her, not someone with more experience, with more expertise? Her superiors must’ve trusted her, wanted her to rise further up the ranks even though she was an NCO and could only get so far. Their forces had been stretched enormously, and she was the one tasked for the job. 

Something suddenly shifted and light broke through. It was difficult to remember what had happened. She heard voices, deep rumbling voices with a distinctive flanging. Fear struck her heart, as she lay there inert. It was a miracle she was even alive. But in this moment she wished she were dead. As more rubble was shifted off her, the pain from her upper arm soon spread to her entire body. All she saw at first were tall, armed figures with incomprehensible, fearsome faces. There was a hollow scream at the back of her throat, but nothing came out of her mouth. Two figures took her arms and heaved out of the remains of God-knows what building there were in.

She allowed herself then to shriek with pain as they tugged on her arms and forced them behind her back. She didn’t really remember the journey after that, only the smoking ruins and the hot air dense with humidity. Warm blood ran thick down her temple. She was transferred to a makeshift prison, still unable to understand the language of those around her. But she knew who they were.

 _Those aliens._ She was a dead woman.


	2. Chapter 2

Laurel Westfahl found out at least one thing when she was brought to her cell and shoved in there without as much a hello.

They were on Shanxi, the human colony, and it was currently occupied. The garrison had capitulated, despite the guerrilla gangs that attempted to drive out the alien invaders. The cell was small, damp and looked like a bombed out police station – although most of it remained intact. Rather convenient for them, she thought. There was nothing she could sit on, it appeared these aliens had stripped the entire building of its contents and replaced it with their own. She heard a steady dripping of a tap somewhere and only dreamt of water. They left her there for a long time; she wasn’t sure how long. The power was either out or they purposely left her in the dark. Time played tricks on your mind when you didn’t know if the sun was up or down, and darkness constantly surrounded you. Laurel took this time to assess her wounds.

Thankfully, she got away lightly. Her right upper arm was definitely broken, as she could barely lift it to touch her shoulder. How badly broken she didn’t know but it was now as big as a melon. There was a searing pain down the middle of her forehead, one that felt like her skull was being cracked in half with a chisel and hammer. Her clothes were filthy, after realising they’d stripped her of her armour and weapons, leaving her only in her black mesh undersuit. She was grateful she wore an extra hoodie underneath her gear, and pulled it up and round her body. Space was cold. Her lace-up boots were still on her feet, too. To lose one’s shoes was the worst possible thing in a situation like this. 

It was probably the bump on her head but she couldn’t remember what had happened. Did they disarm the bomb? Had those aliens disarmed it themselves? No, they couldn’t have. Why was she found on Shanxi under a pile of rubble? If she ever got out of here, there were going to be questions. A horrid feeling of dread nestled in the pit of her stomach. Somehow, she remembered certain feelings…one of betrayal. Yet there was the nasty feeling that she’d cocked it up _big_ time. She also tried to remember what the aliens looked like, but her trip from the collapsed building was hazy. All she knew was that they were humanoid, which she was grateful for. It could only be so much worse.

What seemed like days later, the door of her cell opened, and an obtrusive light was shone in her direction. Laurel was curled on the floor squinting, cradling her broken arm. The figure began talking to her.

“Get up, human,” it barked at her.

Why did she understand it? Translators were limited to only human language. She stirred, grunting in pain. The pain in her head hadn’t subsided. Laurel pulled herself to her feet to face this alien, not wanting to anger it.

“I have a right to know where I am and who you are,” she said quickly, with a tremor in her voice. The alien’s raptor-like face tautened as he regarded her with small, beady eyes. His face was covered by a rigid mask of brown-grey cartilage and bone, flaring outwards in a spiked cowl at the top. Then, to her astonishment, he laughed.

“You have no rights at the moment human. Out.”

She didn’t like its patronising tone of voice. He motioned with his gun, away from the door. Too frightened to ask for water, she slowly walked out of the cell, not daring to look at the alien in the eye. She presumed it was a he, judging by the size of his cowl, who pressed the barrel of the gun into her back and forced her forward. It was unnerving to be lead somewhere she didn't recognise, with no one in front to guide her. She kept turning round when coming across a corridor with several doors, but as an answer the alien returned to pressing the gun into her back. Finally, they came to a large room -  what she presumed was the old chief of police’s room. Anything that was remotely human was taken off the walls, bookshelves and the huge desk in the middle of the room. There were two doors at the back, both guarded.

The alien she now faced was stood in front of the desk, pacing, and his arms behind his back. The guard forced her into the middle of the room, so she faced the leader of this alien faction, she thought. He waved off the guard behind her and stared at her with piercing yellowy eyes. His thick plated skin was of a dark mushroom colour, but what was more striking was the tribal war paint on his faceplates. It was a dark green colour, which made his eyes all the more penetrating. His armour was larger and thicker than the others, and completely black. He must be high-ranking she thought, for he had rather plain insignia - seven stripes - on his upper arm. He stood at a giant six foot six, dwarfing her rather puny five foot five. His three-fingered gloved hands were tipped with talons.

“I expect answers, human,” he said. The mandibles on his face moved as he spoke. _Oh God._ She remembered sod all.

“I lost over _three-hundred_  men on my ship when a human nuclear probe detonated.” He moved closer to her and it took all her strength not to flinch, as she stood there so pathetically clutching at her broken arm.

_It wasn’t disarmed. The probe wasn’t disarmed. What in the fucking fuck._

“I hope you’re not a time waster, like so many other humans have been,” he snapped. He wouldn’t stop pacing furiously. She saw he had a sidearm holstered.

 _Stay calm. Do not appear weak._ “Because my patience wears thin very quickly, unlike the other captains.” He stopped pacing and then began to analyse her.

“I want the name of you and your ship, soldier. You've been cooperative so far and pitifully quiet. I’ll grant you at least one easy question.” She swallowed hard in thought before answering.

“C-Collins,” she bit out. The alien in front of her pulled his mandibles together in what looked like a smirk. He signalled one of his men over, who had a hand-held terminal in his hand.

“Sergeant Laurel A. Westfahl is your name,” he said, mispronouncing her name. Bad translation, she thought.

“Twenty-four years of age, born 2133. You belong to the Engineering Corps, Alliance Navy. Says here you dropped out of education at fifteen, joined the Alliance at twenty. No parents to speak of – yet it says here you cut all ties with your family in 2150. How mortifying for you.”

He looked up from the terminal before throwing it back to one of his men roughly.

“Your criminal record of vandalism, possession of drugs and drink driving is disturbing at worst, seeing as you're military. Hardly very impressive credentials, Westfahl...You surely can’t expect me to think you’re some simple lost adolescent? My supply lines have been sabotaged, as well as a nearby turian camp. I find myself wondering what that’s got to do with three-hundred of my soldiers getting killed by a human _nuclear_ bomb,” he said to her, leaning against the desk, arms now folded. His avian features watched her with intensity, like a raptor watching an unsuspecting mouse. Something compelled her to say something, now that she was so rudely shamed.

“How did you get that information?” was all she could say. The smirk was wiped from his face and he stood back up. Her heart began to pound. She’d been fairly composed before, but something twisted and churned in her gut like an angry sea. He looked like he was barely holding himself back from ripping her apart.

“I believe you are not at liberty to ask that question,” he snapped. “You forget we are on a human colony, at a law-enforcement station? Do you think I’m stupid? _Do_ you?”

Like a misbehaving school child, she looked at the ground unable to look at his piercing yellow eyes.

“ _Pathetic_.”

Those were the last words she heard before she was thrown back into her cell. She had a feeling they were not going to be as nice to her the second time.


	3. Chapter 3

Ignoring the pain in her arm, Laurel desperately tried to get some sleep.

She needed to regain her strength. Her mouth was thick and dry as if she’d been sucking on a sponge. The pain in her head was gone, but the agony felt in her arm was enough. The swelling had only worsened, and the skin felt raw as it was nearly stretched beyond its limits. That alien’s words danced round in her head like a carousel. Of course he had access to her files – although how or why they were listed on a computer in a police station on Shanxi - she grew up on Earth. Then she remembered how she and other friends stowed away on a cargo ship to Shanxi, drunk and rowdy. It was miraculous she'd been accepted into the Alliance. It was bad enough she couldn’t remember what had happened, bad enough that she’d been caught, but why had he been so patronising with her?

She only presumed, as humans did, that they thought themselves superior. They must’ve used their own technology, for she could understand everything they said. The guards who were sometimes outside talked enough so that they were in earshot. They called themselves _turian_. Their captain was Captain Absedeus Marik, or what she could catch of it in any case. She didn’t hear any other names. But she did hear them blame her for the nuclear probe. They were supposed to have captured it! Disarm it, capture it and take it back home to be dismantled! If it was his ship that had been destroyed, then why was he still alive? 

Several times after the first she was taken out and questioned, only for them to be given nothing. The frequent visits to Marik made her think days had passed but when she caught an old clock in one of the bombed offices, it had only been mere hours. They were tricking her, giving her time to be afraid in the dark. They then left her for two or three days, giving her a small bowl of water. The hunger hadn’t hit her yet. She knew they were going to do something. She tried not to imagine anything, but lying on the cold, damp floor in the dark alone for so long played with her mind. _Let them break my body_ , she then said to herself. _Let them really hurt me. I will not give into these turians._ _I won’t. They won't break my soul._  But the amnesia wasn’t wearing off, and cold terror filled her. This time, the turian who came to fetch her handcuffed her from behind. Her broken arm throbbed at being pulled back behind her. She was lead to a much smaller room, where Marik was sat, tall and restrained in his chair. The other turians were all like him, disciplined, not a foot out of line. They kept their eyes on the walls opposite, standing straighter than a rod.  _Slave driver_ , she thought as she was forced down into the chair opposite Marik.

“No time for formalities, Westfahl,” he greeted her, his sharp gaze resting on her. 

She didn’t say anything, regarding him with a stony glare. He didn’t like this tiny insubordination, however. He leapt up from his chair, banging his talons on the table in front of her. She barely flinched this time, but it was difficult to keep her knees straight and unmoving.

“I want _blood_ , human,” he said. “The Council talks of calling both sides off, but I won’t listen to bureaucrats and lying politicians. Not when I have a ship down and three hundred dead. And they deserve the truth. The sabotaged camp and supply lines need explanation too. You have told us nothing. I tried to be reasonable with you.”

“I don’t remember,” she said through her gritted teeth. “The building you found me in had collapsed, I hit my head.” He barked out a laugh, leaning forward. 

“Somehow I think that’s a _very_ convenient answer,” he hissed. He pulled away angrily, having noticed her trembling. He spent some time looking like he was gathering his thoughts, interlinking his talons calmly on the desk. 

“You've been here for four days. My time is short, yet you've told me nothing. You can have it the hard way, or the easy way if you tell me what I want to hear now," he said. He stayed sitting at the desk. She said nothing, only kept her eyes on his, trying to control her shaking. Time felt like it extended as they kept their eyes locked. 

What then happened so unpredictably Laurel didn't have time to react. The guard behind had hit her so hard she immediately toppled from her chair to the floor. She lay on the floor inert with her hands useless, the guard stood above her holding a rod. The turian captain narrowed his avian eyes a little. 

"The hard way it is, Westfahl," he said above her, pure ire in his voice.    
  
The guard started to then beat her with such vicious force that she felt her bones were being re-arranged. Shooting upwards, as if to run for the door, the turian clubbed her from behind. He pushed her against the door, roughly kicking her off her feet. Without the full use of her hands, Laurel crashed to the floor, right on her broken upper arm. A resounding howl escaped from her mouth. Now as she lay on the ground, she was inert and powerless. The guard didn’t give her a chance to sit up as he beat her viciously into the ground. Every inch of her body screamed in agony, and it was hard to contain her cries. By the time the guard was done, she was at the edge of losing consciousness. She could feel a couple of loose teeth, along with several broken ribs and fingers. With her eyes blurry and the world dizzy, Laurel could see nothing, but the motion of the captain making to leave the room. Before he did, he bent down to her at eye-level. 

“You _will_ talk.” Laurel fought the urgency of shouting back, but it didn’t work, and she spoke through the blood that was dripping out of her mouth, and trailing down her chin.

“Not for you, you brute,” she hissed, her muscles clenching in spasms as the guard dealt another blow to her abdomen. She had spat so hard at him that some of her blood landed on his leg. He ignored it. Marik stood back up, fixing her with a terrible glare. When her beating had eventually stopped, she was lying on her side, breathing hard. Blood was pounding hard in her ears. She then noticed Marik's large, taloned feet in front of her face, just inches away. It was almost a warning. Instead he bent back down to analyse her. 

“Changed your mind, yet human?” Laurel slowly shook her head, as she lay there on the ground, stationary. Tears of pain ran in rivulets down her dirty cheeks. He flashed a chastised expression. With that he left, and she was dragged back to her lonely cell. 

Laurel later received more water, but she still hadn’t eaten for days. She heard gunfire and explosions continually outside. The war had to be coming to a close. They’d made sure to leave her for what felt so long but she was certain she’d been forgotten. They hadn’t been as brutal as she thought they might’ve been. What was holding them back? She could tell they were a highly disciplined, controlled species. The blasts and gunfire from outside occasionally lit up the walls as she lay there, one leg drawn up to her chest, as she lay against the wall. Laurel tried not to dwell as she sat there, desperately trying to ignore the intense pain she felt all over her body. Her arm had dulled slightly, but she felt the throbbing pain in her broken fingers more than ever. Both hands. Would she be able to hold a weapon properly anymore?

The smell of death lingered in the air.

 


	4. Chapter 4

The door unbolted, shining a patch of light onto Laurel. The turian nudged her roughly with his foot, holding a small bowlful of stale water. Slowly getting up, she looked at him nervously before taking a handful. Slurping some of it desperately, she used the rest to wash her face. The water, when she was done with it, was now redder. Ignoring this, she took another slurp of water, rinsing and spitting it out onto the floor. Her tongue couldn’t stop poking at her loose, bleeding teeth. This time the turian guard didn’t bind her wrists, much to her relief.  
  
Being beaten without the use of her hands was even worse, and had resulted in her broken fingers. The guard lead her to another dark grey room, probably the same she’d been in before. She glanced warily about the room, her heart beginning to pound again. Marik was sat back at the desk. She saw a dark brown stain on the floor. _My blood._ A makeshift light in the corner of the room was unnaturally bright. Something didn’t feel right, the atmosphere had changed. Something must’ve happened. Marik continued to look at the terminal in his taloned hands, ignoring her for several moments. He waved off the guard behind her, who left the room without another word. Laurel watched Marik carefully, as he stood up to his full height and walked round to the front of the desk, inches from her.

“I’m growing tired of having to ask you the same questions over and over again,” he began, staring at her. She bit her lip, trying to carefully word her next sentence.

“If you were in my place, wouldn’t you do the same thing?” she asked him.

His yellow eyes and mandibles widened slightly, before regaining his composure.

“I wouldn’t have _fwroka_ up from the start,” he replied.

Something hadn’t translated properly but she guessed it wasn’t meant to be a pleasant word. He began pacing angrily, his hands back behind him.

“I’m not exactly sure what game you’re playing with me, human,” he warned her, the sub-harmonics in his voice rumbling with the end of each syllable. “But I can only infer from what little information I have. Your unit had been sent out to disarm that bomb. Except it detonated. An unidentified vessel, a human frigate had been detected in turian space. This frigate crash landed on this pitiful colony. You were found in a collapsed building, with your ID linked to that very ship. You were its bomb disposal expert. Explain.”

“You call us callous,” she said, her voice small, looking at the floor. “But you were the ones who opened fire on unidentified vessels, instead of negotiating. How were we to know the do’s and the don’ts of the galaxy?” She then met his eyes. “Is that how you always respond to unknowns, Captain?”

Marik looked like he wanted to hit her, coming to stand close enough to her that could she feel the hatred surging off him. He suddenly grabbed her by the front of her jacket, lifting her off the ground, pulling her close enough to his face. She could see flecks of brown in his eyes.

“I don’t care if I have to break every bone in your wretched little body, human,” he hissed into her face. She was so close to him that she could feel his hot breath on her face. She recoiled in disgust, trying to pull away from his frightening features. He let her down roughly, just as another guard came into the room.

“You nearly have,” she whispered, thinking he wouldn’t hear, but he did. His eyes narrowed as he pondered for a moment.

“You’re about to witness just what kind of Captain I am, _Sergeant_. Let’s see how weak your flawed physiology is.”

She hadn’t noticed there was a large sink in the corner of the room. A dirtied, broken fridge amongst countertops sat beside the large, enamel sink. They took away what little clothes she had left. She stood there, trying to control her trembling and chattering teeth. _Why was it so cold? Or was she just petrified out of her damn mind?_ It was hard to feel unashamed standing in just a vest and undergarments, watching these aliens regard her frail human body with mockery. She knew how bad it must’ve looked; her swollen fingers and upper arm, the contusions all over her body, her black eyes and swollen nose. She looked at them, totally unprotected and defenceless.

The clothes were all that she had to protect her. The guard took hold of her and bound her wrists. Before could she could struggle, he lead her towards the full sink. He roughly pushed her head into the water. It was glacial in temperature, and she immediately choked from the shock of the iciness. Her head whirred and screamed. The guard pulled her back up, as she choked and spluttered, desperately trying to breathe in oxygen. But it was for a fraction of a second before her head was plunged back under the water. Every inch of her body was screaming for air and the freezing water made her head split with the pain. The turian guard held her under the water for longer, but she tried to hold the last ounce of air in her lungs. She heard their voices.

“She’s trying not to breathe, sir.”

The water began to seep in her mouth, trickling down her throat. Her lungs were empty, about to burst. She finally choked as she felt a wallop from behind, her legs nearly buckling underneath her. Her body contorted, and the pain from her broken ribs nearly made her howl in pain. Exhaustion overtook her, and she stopped struggling as the guard forced her down. Her mind was failing, and the water filled her lungs quickly. She grew silent, the choking having stopped, realising she was drowning. She fell into unconsciousness seconds later.

_Get up Westfahl! You miserable, pathetic excuse for a soldier! For a human!_

Was it Marik or her mind telling her this? She suddenly woke up, coughing out heaps of water. They didn’t help her, and left her to vomit. They’ve must’ve revived her; otherwise she would’ve died. Her undergarments were soaked, and clung to her wet skin, which had erupted with goosebumps. She’d bitten on her tongue and blood poured from her mouth. Marik came into view, watching her. She was still coughing and heaving as he began regarding her with those pitiless eyes, as he rested on his haunches.

“Your lips are purple, human,” he said. “Are you ready to tell me what I want to hear?”

She began to shiver uncontrollably, her muscles evoking terrible spasms. Laurel finally regained whatever semblance of strength she had left and looked at him as she lay there.

“Why did you revive me?” she asked him. His mandibles twitched, as his eyes pierced her.

“Hoping to die so soon?” he said to her. “I don’t think you’d do it in honour for your pitiful military _Alliance_.”

“What then? You want an apology?!” she snapped.

“Testing my patience with your defiance? You’re doing a fine job of it.”

“One of my more finer skills.” He regarded her a little longer and stood back up, beginning to pace again.

“You may think me cruel, but I’m nothing compared to some of my superiors. I fear I have been too easy on you. But you will pay for your war crimes – you and whatever unit decided to send a probe into turian space.”

“I don’t KNOW what happened! We were meant to defuse the bomb!” she croaked. “If I could remember, BY GOD I’d have told you by now.” He twisted back round, with a vicious, predatory look on his face. He stood on her already broken fingers. She screamed in anguish. 

“That is why you’re so contemptible,” he snapped, ignoring her cries. “No sense of worth, or honour, no dignity. What I find lacking in you, human, is that yes, I have the facts about your record. There is no secret there. No government giveaways, no military tactics…I want only the truth about what happened to my men. And I’ll make sure you pay.”

Laurel lay there still after her crying calmed, tears pouring from her eyes. She moved her head to stare at him. He was back on his haunches, unbearably close. 

“This is not an interrogation,” she rasped, her voice broken. “You’re punishing me.”

“So determined to prove you’re not weak by answering back…” he said, standing back up. “But you deserve punishment for what you did.”

“Fuck you. You know nothing about me,” she snapped. He studied her for longer – what felt like an eternity to her.

“Oh I think I can guess,” he said and waved the guards over.

They heaved her upwards and dragged her, shaking and drenched, back to her cell. _Why didn’t they let me die_ , she said to herself, and buried her head in her arms. _I was on the verge of death, and they kept me alive._ She was left there, for a few days, with scraps of food and water. Her pain made her drift in and out of consciousness. They beat her until she was near unrecognisable.   
  
Weeks later, she was eventually found by the Alliance. The short war had finally ended. 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**10 Years Later – 2167**

 

“General,” greeted an old friend when the front door had been opened.

“That’s a title I haven’t gone by for a long time,” said Absedeus, his apartment door closing behind him. Vuren hadn’t changed that much unlike him, his colony markings still bright on his mahogany plates. They began the walk down the relatively quiet ward, where they didn’t see a single soul until Vuren hailed a skycar cab.

“It’s still strange to see you settled in an apartment on the Citadel, of all places,” continued Vuren as they headed towards Zakera Ward, a favourite haunt of theirs.

“I hate bureaucrats and politicians….but they insist that I reside here. To “advise” them.” Vuren turned to look at Absedeus’ expression of disgust. He was a military man, through and through, thought Vuren. But there was something that lingered of regret, of bitterness in the turian’s weather-beaten face.

“I do regret you are five years my junior. Still on the _Ontarian_?” said Absedeus. “You must be well overdue a promotion, Captain.”

“Yes, although I’m to be transferred to the _Obsidian_ next turnover. If they’re considering a rank rise, they haven’t notified me as of yet,” Vuren joked.

Absedeus Marik watched the traffic of the Citadel whiz by them as he briefly looked out of the window. Bright neon colours all blended into each other, moving shapes that were unrecognisable as they sped through the thick, intense haze of the wards…. He could never get used to living on a space station. He was better suited on a dreadnought or carrier, where he’d always been. Probably why he was feeling so old and crabby these days. And cynical too. Like many turian veterans, the human newcomers aggressively immersing themselves in politics, setting up colonies and trade alliances had troubled him greatly. They were developing too fast for his liking.

He liked to dispute with arrogant humans at times, engaging them in a debate, often at bars after a few drinks. He’d always bring up the fact that human society was barely beginning when the turians had been granted a seat on the Citadel Council, that they’d achieved spaceflight when humans could barely hold a hammer. It wasn’t long before the cab arrived at Zakera.

“There’s a fairly new bar that’s opened. It caters for dextro _and_ levo foods, apparently,” said Vuren a hint of light-hearted sarcasm in his sub-vocals, as they headed for the stairs leading to Level 28.

“I’m not sure whether to feel pleased or merely disgusted,” replied Absedeus, which made Vuren pull his mandibles into a smirk. The bar, or restaurant wasn’t different in appearance from any other bar on the ward. That was the way Absedeus liked it. Clean, simple and not staffed solely by other species. He preferred seeing another turian face in sight.

“You’ve could’ve done worse,” said Absedeus as they seated themselves at the bar.  
  
The bar itself was chrome and the rather large range of alcohol on the unit behind the counter was headache-inducingly colourful. The lights were dim, and beside the bar were corner booths, tables intended for couples and large tables for big groups. There was low, bass-intense music that he didn’t recognise in the background. Odd-looking artwork on the walls. Funny shapes on plain backgrounds – that was _art?_ Was this place…human?

“Although I am beginning to dislike what I am seeing…” he suddenly said, looking around. Vuren barked out a laugh.

“I know you well enough to be insubordinate but…you ought to relax a little, Marik,” said Vuren.

“I regret the fact you do know me well enough,” countered Marik, swiping at the holo-menu on the surface of the bar.

“You’ve never loosened up, have you? Not enough for a woman either. It’s a pity. At fifty-one I’d say you’re doing pretty well,” joked Vuren.  
  
Marik, if he wasn’t glad it was the end of the week, might’ve chided Vuren for his irreverence. Instead he nearly smiled.

“Was never the bonding type,” he muttered.  
  
He looked up and glanced around at the bar’s customers. A large young-looking krogan sat at the end of the bar, his head in his arms. Surely not? The evening had just begun. A group of asari in one of the corner booths, accompanied by a couple of human males... A drabble of salarians and turians, who’d sat at the large table, making more of a racket than the asari. There were also a couple of lone humans, who were seated away from everyone else, eyeing them consciously.

“Is this a human bar?” said Absedeus. “The service is appalling. Where are the bar staff?”

“Now, now, don’t judge so quickly…” said Vuren. Absedeus’s temper was easily provoked, and his stomach was rumbling. He also need something stiff, something to ease the thirty-year headache that so often erupted along his front crest plates above his eyes. A couple of humans, much to his distaste, had come round from the back. The human male hadn’t spotted them at first, and the human female was busy with lugging a large crate onto the bar.

“I need you to do that goddamn overtime on Sunday, final word,” he hissed to the female. Absedeus, despite being at the other end of the bar happened to have the hearing of a bat. The human female snorted, her face obscured by an unruly mass of short brown hair, as she unloaded the crate, clanking the bottles together.

“You never pay me time and a half on a Sunday, Jon. I’ve gotta pay rent, my asshole of a-”

“Talk later. Table six is ready, they’ve been waiting for over ten minutes now!”

“We’ve been waiting for over ten minutes,” said Absedeus loudly.  
  
The human male, bald and large nosed with pale skin pathetically scarpered up to them, his holo-pad and stylus in his hand straight away.

“Terribly sorry gentleman, we are very short on staff tonight-”

“Maybe if you paid your employees double on that Sunday, yes? Maybe you’d attract more employees…and then you wouldn’t be so short. And you also wouldn’t try my patience-” Vuern suddenly put an arm round Absedeus’s carapace, cutting him off.

“What he means to say is we’d like two Opioms,” he said.

The bartender looked confused for a moment before nodding, seemingly unfazed by Absedeus. He worked in customer service; he was probably used to it all the time.

“Are you interested in ordering food?” he then asked. The human female at the other end of the bar was still clanking bottles and generally making a racket.

“If the dextro food is made by humans then I will kindly refrain,” snapped Absedeus. The man didn’t even blink.

“All food is prepared by Relena, our excellent turian chef. Would you like me to introduce you to her?” he said. This human was mocking him, and he wanted to slam his fragile skull straight into the chrome of the bar.

“We’ll pass,” said Vuren quickly. He pointed to one of the more popular turian delicacies on the menu to the bartender.

“I thought you’d jump at the chance,” said Absedeus, still irritated.

“What? At meeting Relena? Hey, I’m not getting involved in your love life, jokes aside,” said Vuren, his mandibles tautening slightly.

Absedeus watched the human male make the drinks, scrutinising his every action. This was a regular turian spirit, mixed with a variety of other softer non-alcoholic drinks. It was sweet and bitter to the tongue, but not something he regularly indulged in. He was surprised at Vuren’s choice. He usually stuck to his usual: Reynor, a distilled beverage that was made from seed pellets named reyn naturally found on Palaven. It was his species miracle grain: everything from alcoholic beverages to the bases of many foods that weren’t originally from livestock was made from reyn. Reynor, unfortunately, had been his partner for the last ten years, a love-hate relationship that had resulted in severe consequences for his career.

“What is this awful music?” he suddenly snapped, after the human male had given them their drinks in the usual tall tubes. Vuren sniggered into his drink.

“ _Sultans_ _of_ _Swing_ ,” called a voice below the bar. It was that human female, still clanking around bottles.

“The sultans of what?” he said. “Is it human?” The drink was refined and sharp on his tongue as he sipped. A warm pleasure had spread from his chest down to his spurs.

“Human,” said the voice. “Dire Straits, 1979…Not sure what it’d be on your timeline…” Absedeus was silent, having nothing further to say. He was certainly not going to endure a cultural lesson on human music, he thought.

“It was a mistake to come to this bar,” he growled at Vuren.

“And I thought you were enjoying it,” joked Vuren. The human female below probably hadn’t heard them because she kept talking.

“One of the best guitar solos…definitely began to shape rock and roll during…” her voice trailed off.

“Surely out-dated, even by your standards?” said Vuren.

“Nearly two hundred years old…yes. But it’s timeless. I chose the music, just wanted to …make the bar seem different,” the human female said as she bent back upwards, turning to face the turians. As she looked at them, her face blanched for the briefest of moments. She was wearing high-waisted trousers that accentuated her waistline accompanied by a loose mint-green blouse. Her eyes Absedeus noted, a peculiar light blue, widened. She swallowed several times, pulled a small smile as if to excuse herself and walked quickly from the room. Both turians watched her scuttle off in confusion.

“What was that about?” said Vuren.

“She clearly had no idea she was talking to a pair of turians…” replied Absedeus, amused for a moment.  
  
Her eyes looked very familiar, but he couldn’t place a finger on it. Why would a pair of bulging human eyes look familiar to him? He certainly didn’t spend his time studying the eye colour of humans. He forgot about it soon enough as he drunk himself into that same stupor, ignoring the fact that he’d meant to socialise with Vuren.


	6. Chapter 6

She knew that face only too well.

She had to walk extremely quickly towards the toilet, which was out the back. One of the chefs asked if she was okay, as she had to cross through the steamy kitchen. Locking the door behind her, she opened the entire contents of her stomach into the toilet bowl until her insides felt quite empty. That _face_. Why here, of all places? She made sure that her past wouldn’t chase her, but here it was, causing a stink right in front of her. Jon was suddenly banging on the door.

“LAUREL! If you’re having another cig in there I’m firing your ass! Relena just said you darted through the kitchen! I’ve got half a dozen hungry customers chasing my tail feathers! Last warning!”

“Christ! Can I take a single shit or are you taking that time off my paycheck!?” she forced, her voice stronger than she’d realised.

“Half a minute more!” she heard him call back.

She sat on the toilet seat, feeling her hands tremble. She wiped them on her black trousers as she tried to pull herself together. Laurel glanced down at her hands, with her slightly distorted, misaligned fingers. Goddammit, she moaned to herself. That past had been and gone. She tried her best to wipe it from her mind. She’d have to give this job up…how would she pay rent? The place she rented currently was too expensive, but then again would she want to move somewhere cheaper but rougher? Oh, how she wanted to tell Jon to shove it, and stick his hungry customers up his asshole. Could she take another five hours of this shit, with potentially serving someone who used to be her captor, all those years ago? Moving to the Citadel had been a bad call on her part she’d later found out. She still wasn’t very comfortable being around turians, and it was likewise. It had been ten years and things had massively improved. But humans were still not looked on favourably, and most of the other (Council) races outnumbered them on the Citadel.

 _I can’t do it. I just can’t._ She caught her expression in the mirror. Her thin face was white. She ran cool water over her face, before taking a deep breath returning to the bar area.

_Deal with it. Otherwise you’ll have no job and then it’s the streets._

Laurel walked back out, keeping a calm expression although her hands shook. Jon was serving, so thankfully she didn’t receive an earful. She approached a group of asari, who gave her a somewhat haughty look when she approached.

“Well its about time,” one of them said, making the others smirk.

“Are you ready to order?” Laurel asked, her voice shaking slightly. _It’s been ten years woman, ten years. You told yourself you weren’t weak anymore._

“We’ve been waiting for our drinks, they haven’t even turned up yet,” said another.

“I do apologise,” replied Laurel with gritted teeth, taking out her holo-pad and stylus. “We’re short-staffed. With whom did you place the order with?”

“The ugly bald human. Why ask? Isn’t that the only other staff member?” sniffed the first asari. Laurel looked over towards Jon, who was busy taking another order. She couldn’t see the drinks prepared, as she looked over towards the bar. _Him_ and his buddy were still there.

“Okay, I will go and make them,” said Laurel. She hated apologising for other people’s mistakes, especially if it made her look stupid in front of sneering customers.

“Oh so they _haven’t_ been prepared?” said the asari, her voice rising.

“I’ll make them for you,” said Laurel quickly, hoping to quell the asari’s anger. “What were your orders?”

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” snapped the asari. She re-took their order, and moved towards the bar. Her hands were still shaking, and she turned her back on the turians as soon as she got there. She was still unnerved by their presence at times, even though ten years had passed. Most of the time she was polite and reserved, happy to keep conversation and interaction to a minimum. She had a couple of years where she felt like she’d let most of it go…even the old chestnuts that liked to rear their ugly heads. Her parents she'd got over - until she’d seen her younger sister that summer, her old Alliance commander and was assaulted in a mugging involving a turian. She shook the memories away, taking a spirit bottle in her hand and pouring it easily into the canisters. She still wasn’t very good at making alien drinks, which at times required more concentration, especially the asari cocktails. It was hard to keep her trembling hands steady as she mixed the drinks, and eventually failed when she let one glass slip. It resulted in a crash in the sink below her.

“That’s IT!” she heard a yell. “I've seen better service from a volus!” Laurel quickly tried to sweep up the mess in the sink.

“Half an hour you wasted of my time! You do realise that I'll be going on social media and telling everyone what an awful restaurant you are!” the asari shouted over towards the bar. Laurel brought herself up to face her.

“Do your worst,” she snapped. The asari’s face dropped slightly.

“What?” she muttered.

“I don’t give a shit what you say on the extranet,” said Laurel matter-of-factly. The asari, open-mouthed, twisted back round and flounced off with her group. She was glad Jon was still trying to take customer orders. She heard a snigger to the right of her, seeing it was the turian with the brown plates. His colony markings were much brighter compared to _his,_ a vivid red colour – a colour that looked too much like blood. She pointedly ignored him and began throwing the pre-made drinks into the sink.

“Is that how you treat all your customers, human?” he said in amusement.

 _Why here? Why now?_ She ignored him again, continuing to clean up as fast as she could – just so she could get away from the bar. But Jon came round that second.

“Petra is in, could you man the bar for me? I’ll take the orders – and what was with that asari group? Did they just leave?” he said, sticking his stylus behind his ear.

“She was quite certain in her assumption that she wasn’t coming back,” said Laurel, still picking the glass out of the sink below her. “You hadn’t made the drinks…”

“You also said you didn’t ‘give a shit’ as I recall,” replied the red turian friend again. Jon’s face glowered for a brief second.

“The second we get a free moment, I need to have a serious chat with you,” he hissed, before turning away.

She made sure she didn’t meet eyes with Absedeus Marik the rest of the evening. They drank themselves silly so they didn’t pay attention to her half the time, chatted up a few female turians, and promptly left.


	7. Chapter 7

It was another evening, and it was the end of the week. Marik decided he didn’t like the cold emptiness of his apartment, and asked Vuren if he wanted to drink again. Vuren said he could possibly bear another night of serious drinking before calling it a day, or perhaps a week. They ended up in the exact same bar as the night before, much to Marik’s protests.

“Cheaper than the Dark Star Lounge,” Vuren had said. Marik begrudgingly went along, but in reality he was just waiting for the next drink.

“Another, human,” said Vuren, pushing his glass hard enough that it glided across the surface of the bar. It was an hour later, and they had four drinks so far. She caught it in her hand angrily and put it into the dirty washing rack.

“Another what, _turian_?” she snapped. Her temper was being provoked.

“Talk to me like that again and I’ll have to file in a complaint like those asari,” warned Vuren. Marik realised he’d been studying her a little too closely. Her hands looked strange, as he watched her make the drinks. He’d seen human hands, but hers didn’t look like all the others.

“I have a name, I’d appreciate it if you’d stop calling me ‘human,’” she said now making a round of cocktails for a salarian/asari group after cleaning up. There was no reply from Vuren, and she took her time in making the drinks for the other group before returning to them. By the time she’d returned, Marik wanted another round.

“So what awful human music is playing now?” he suddenly asked her. She froze a little, before continuing.

“It’s not human,” she stated, unscrewing the lid of a large bottle and pouring it into the glass on the bar. She ignored him after that.   
  
Five drinks later, Vuren made his goodbyes, and left, making excuses. Marik didn’t blame him. Everyone knew he was prone to alcoholism – his greatest shame and the root of his ‘polite’ dismissal from the military. They gave him an advisor’s job to the politicians and he hated them for it. Some bastard knew this, some bastard wanted to see him squirm in a distinctly un-military setting. Some lone salarian an hour later set near him at the bar and ordered something he’d never see before – something disgusting and large in a tall beaker. He began talking animatedly to the female bartender, who was trying her best to ignore everyone and everything.

“I’ve been studying human physiology for a while now. Fascinating. Genetically diverse,” he said to the bartender.

She didn’t say anything as she continued making a cocktail, shoving the citrus fruit onto the side of the glass with barely-concealed frustration. This intensely annoying salarian kept talking while she ‘hmm-d’ and ‘uh-huhed’ until he mentioned her fingers that were busy currently cutting up more citrus fruit.

“Those misaligned bones in your fingers. I can re-set them. Potentially problematic in human medicine, but not for a salarian. How long ago did it happen? Hm. Very interesting. In the past human medicine had to break malunionised bones in order to realign them. I can do so without…er…the painful re-breaking.”

“Thanks but no thanks,” she said to him. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“It looks like they were broken under force. I can also advise that you-”

“You hear me, baldie? I don’t want to talk about it,” she snapped, and went to take the cocktails to a human/asari group.

Marik frowned into his drink. He’d see plenty of broken human bones in his time, ones that had broken under the strain of his own body. Their bone structure was too weak, as well as their skin. He never understood the evolutionary need for four fingers.

He had an odd feeling that he'd previously known her -  that she'd been someone that he'd come across her in the 'war' as humans termed it. There was something too familiar about her voice and eyes. Humans looked all the same to him. But not this one. 

 


	8. Chapter 8

Laurel woke up in the middle of the night – 4:13am said her clock – sweating and nearly crying.

Trailing to the kitchen in her apartment, she took a cold glass of water and watched the steady hum of skycars pass by her window at ridiculous speeds. She missed the sunlight of earth and the cool mornings of her home country, with the birds singing. But she couldn’t face being back there; there were too many painful memories. She attempted to sleep again, but could only hear past words circle round her head. Enough was enough – she got up, showered, packed her satchel and moved to the transit cab rank. The apartment felt oppressive – kitchen, living room and bedroom all in one room, despite the large space. She arrived at the library five minutes later, which was open twenty-four hours during the week.

It overlooked the Presidium gardens, and she liked to take the space right at the top. She was trying to make something of her life by doing a correspondence course with the IOU – International Open University – partly funded by the Alliance, as a result of her serving with them. She might as well continue doing her essay, if but to rinse her mind of memories – of _him._ Thinking of that time only brought pain – it wasn’t only the big fuckup of the mission or the torture she went through. It was her court-martialling, her dismissal from the Alliance….Not to mention she had no-one to support her as she went through it. Her family had cut her off years ago. Her friends had isolated her, believing her to be rightfully dismissed.

As she set up camp at one of the desk, taking out her portable terminal, she had felt surprised to see Captain Absedeus Marik drowning his sorrows in drink after drink for two nights in a row. How long until he would recognise her? The dark green colony markings on his face had faded slightly, and he had extensive scarring up the side of his neck and on his cowl. His dark plates looked worn and battle-scarred. But those yellowy eyes were still as piercing as they had been before. The way they bored into her, as if he could read her mind. The way he so patronisingly talked to her, as if she was mere dirt…. a _puny_ human. She wished at that time she hadn’t suffered from amnesia. She almost wished, if she had the courage, to go up to him now and tell him the truth.

_Yes, I fucked up but I was betrayed. And the Alliance covered it all up like icing on a fucking cake._

Laurel worked until midday, realising her shift was due to start in an hour. Returning home, having showered and changed, she took another cab back to _Mozarts,_ the name of the bar where she worked.

“This is your last warning, Laurel,” Jon said to her as soon as she got in, tying an apron round her waist.

“I’d like it if you wouldn’t speak to me like this when I’m starting,” she snapped, shoving her worn handbag into her locker roughly.

“I don’t have time to talk to you properly! Can you do that Sunday? I’ve got a new employee starting that day, but you need to show them the ropes. Also we have special guests night.”

“Oh God,” she moaned, hitting her head on the locker. “It’s not Spirit Zero is it? Because they were awful.” Jon’s face crinkled.

“Don’t start saying that round the asari. Seems like you don’t really make friends with the aliens, do you?” Laurel twisted round to face him.

“And you do? Tell me Jon, do you relieve your teenage fantasies into that Consort?” His eyes nearly crossed in anger, and pointed his stylus close into her face.

“As I said, last warning, Laurel,” he said, and stormed away.

She sniggered, as she clipped her unruly bushy hair out of her face and walked to the bar. As it was only two o’ clock in the afternoon, customer crowds were light. A few families came in for the lunch meal deal, and a few old fogies for their four o’ clock pint. She switched the age-old jukebox on, turning to one of her favourites. The shift seemed to go swimmingly well. She hadn’t managed to piss off Jon for _at_ _least_ four hours, she'd thought sarcastically. They used to get on, him acting like a caring parent. Maybe it was the music that made the shift seem to fly by. She almost felt calm under a false sense of security. By the time it reached six o’clock, Petra, the new young female turian employee had arrived and so had the customers. Petra hadn’t much experience with bartending so Jon left it to Laurel who was content to man it. Until, at around nine o’clock, despite the bustling noise and crowds, Absedeus turned up asking for his usual – a turian whiskey. He didn’t even look at her; obviously having grown to used to her and - thank Christ – not remembering her. He shoved his credit chit on the chrome surface, which she scanned and gave back to him without a backwards glance. He drunk himself into that same stupor, and left without a backwards glance. She hoped it wasn’t going to turn into one of his frequent bars.

 


	9. Chapter 9

A week later.

He wasn’t sure what had provoked him into a splurge of going to the bar each night, but he liked the way it cleared his mind, helped him sleep. The new bar was still not popular like the others, and he liked it that way. He didn’t want old military ambassadors, politicians or advisors to see him this way. There was a sense of dignity that had to be kept, yet it was becoming more difficult with time. Vuren hadn’t contacted him – the Major probably didn’t gain much from his company. His apartment was cold, empty, and lonely.   
  
He could only see comfort in a busy, loud setting, and at the bottom of his glass. He tried another bar on this particular evening – the Silver Coast Casino – which was a more refined setting, but by midnight only the seedy, the desperate and the lost were there. The drinks were not as good as that other human bar – the Moat-Zart? He couldn’t remember the strange sounding human name. He tried his hand occasionally at gambling, but stopped himself after he’d lost over a thousand credits. He sat at the bar, quite sober at the point, chatting to the asari bartender, who was quite enjoying the undivided attention lavished on her.

“General Marik, yes I do remember that name,” she smiled. “Your reputation precedes you.” Absedeus wanted to grown into the shiny surface of the bar.

“Well, what’s left of it anyway,” he snapped.

The bartender, somewhat taken aback, quickly moved on to another customer. He drank himself into another stupor, until he was sure he’d forgotten the memories. For some reason, he’d been thinking of the Relay 314 Incident as of lately. He wasn’t sure what provoked it, seeing as he’d blocked his mind from it for a long time. There was so use in thinking about the past – the past, which had been and gone. He hadn’t been as sure however, as he felt the usual sober feelings come back to him as he wandered down the strip. He ended up walking for an hour. He wandered until found himself at the Moat-Zart. It was packed full, with live music playing. He tried to tell himself to leave it and go home. Absedeus felt himself moving forward anyway, into the crowded, noisy bar. People were drinking and swaying to the live music - some unbearable asari group. He seated himself at the bar, having pushed through the crwod of salarians, asari and turians roughly. He heard a few mumbles about how rude he was. There was no one at the bar. He lifted a hand up and shouted towards the nearest human he could see.

“Service!” he shouted, smacking his talon on the surface of the bar.

He had to raise his voice above the dreadful, whiny music. Absedeus did it once more before a human bartender walked over towards him. It was that blue-eyed waitress, her forehead knitted. Her rather bushy fringe was pinned back, revealing more of her face.

“Another Reynor?” she said, already getting out a glass.

She hadn’t snapped at him this time, but her tone wasn’t friendly either. He grunted at her, merely nodding. He pretended to be glaring at the asari band, but in fact he was taking furtive glances towards her. He wasn’t as drunk as he’d been, thanks to the hour-long walk from the Silver Coast Casino. A terrible thought came to his mind. She looked one of those humans he’d interrogated during the Relay 314 Incident, one of very few. Her name didn’t come to him, he’d only interrogated one female. He couldn’t see her very well in the dark bar, which had been dimmed for the band. She slammed his glass down in front of him and tapped the automated till.

“Tab?” she said, not even looking at him.

“What is your name?” he asked her, looking at her straight in the eye. She froze for a moment, before collecting herself.

“Tab or not?” she snapped. At this point in time he was glad he was slightly sober.

“Tab,” he replied.

She completed the procedure without saying anything else to him. Her clear hostility was unusual – he’d seen her be rude to her boss, the other customers, but it had been occasional. What could warrant such unsolicited hostility? He took a sip and then baulked at his thinking. She was a _human._ Her hostility had been born from fear, and rightly so.

Humans had plenty to fear from turians.

 


	10. Chapter 10

For some reason he was drawn to Mozarts because this human interested him.

He tried to quell any further thoughts he had because they would frequently remind him it was beneath him to pursue a human-run bar with a human bartender. Or that the memories associated with humans were not particularly pleasant. Absedeus entered the fairly quiet bar on a mid-week afternoon. He’d taken two weeks off from work spontaneously, which was unlike him. He took his usual seat, right at the end closest to the entrance. The bald human rounded the corner, stylus and notepad in his hand.

“Good afternoon. You are becoming an established regular with us,” he said, smiling. Absedeus just scowled at him.

“Reynor,” he grunted. The man, ever unfazed, smiled and nodded, tapping the till’s screen.

“Of course sir, will you be needing a tab?” Absedeus was silent for a moment, glaring at the human male, named Jon, he’d heard.

“Answer a question for me,” he said.

Jon was still faffing around on the till but he ‘hmm-ed’ in response. Absedeus wanted to pummel this human in particular for his snot-nosed self-importance. He reached into the inner pocket of his tunic and pulled out his credit chit.

“What is the name of your female bartender?” he asked. Jon looked incredulous, raising his eyebrows.

“Er – Laurel. Do you need to make a complaint?” he answered.

“Her surname?”

“Are you with C-Sec?” Jon asked. Absedeus nearly smirked.

“You could say so.”

“Well I’ll need some identification, I don’t just hand out my employee’s information to strangers like candy,” said Jon, crossing his arms.

In response, Absedeus’s face grew dark and pushed his credit chit across the bar surface towards the bartender. He sat there eating and drinking, wondering if this Laurel would show up. Why had his memory tempted him with knowledge, potentially disturbing knowledge, about an insignificant human, but not give him the whole thing? At about seven in the evening, she showed up, her shoulders sagging when she caught sight of him. She busied herself long enough so she wouldn’t have to interact with him, but he shouted across to her several times.

She didn’t ask him what he wanted, made the Reynor and walked over towards him, putting the glass in front of him without a single glance. The bar was a lot busier now and grew more crowded in the evening. He was glad that no one he knew had frequented this bar as often as he did. He tried to disguise the fact he was drinking, although it was always so obvious. When she happened to walk by him, after previously being reprimanded by the manager Jon, she scooped up his plate and glass as quickly as she could.

“Laurel,” he said.

She halted, her pupils had dilated as she looked at him. They stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity. He saw the matured years in her face, lines of worry and stress already etched into her forehead. She didn’t look as if she knew what to do, or to say. Perhaps he was wrong, for she turned away. His taloned hand shot out, grabbing her by the wrist and pulling her back towards him. His reaction seemed to shock her, so she didn’t resist at first. With an almost tender touch, he spread out the fingers on her hand. The skin on her hands was rough. Her long fingers were slightly twisted and clawed. That nosy salarian had been right; these fingers had been broken by force.

“If you don’t let go this instant, I will call security,” she warned, trying to twist her ugly hand out of his own.

But he suddenly gripped it tightly, enough that her skin would probably bruise later. Her breath hitched.

“What is your surname?” he persisted. To everyone else, they looked like a flirting couple, drawn together. She stopped struggling and gaped at him in shock.

“You don’t remember me?” she said in disbelief, her eyebrows drawn to form a frown.

“I forget insignificant humans easily,” he snapped back. She wrenched her hand out of his as hard as she could, with a ferocity that nearly surprised him.

“How do you know my first name?” she said to him, still in a stupor. He swallowed, trying not to show his slight embarrassment, for he enquired after her, a _human_.

"If you touch me again I will alert the authorities,” she hissed into his face. She drew away before he could say anything else to her, disappearing into the crowd.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading my story and kudos-ing it :) Much appreciated! Enjoy.

He realised that she'd quit the job when he went back to  _Mozarts_  several times.

He had an inkling she was one of the prisoners during the incident, but he couldn't place who and what she'd done. Over the next week, her face and hands plagued his mind constantly, both in reality and in dreams. He tried to return to work, maintaining his disciplined, reserved persona. He didn't see Vuren, but then again he didn't care much. Absedeus liked his solitary life, although he realised there was something missing from it. He sometimes wished that he'd died valiantly in battle – the civilian life was not for him. Not when he'd spent so much of his time out in the field. The search for the human almost gave him some purpose; take his mind off the next drink awaiting him. Absedeus returned to Mozarts one evening, seeing the bald human male Jon at the fairly quiet bar. Jon saw him instantly and began to make his drink.

"No," Absedeus interrupted, holding up his taloned hand. "Not tonight." He didn't take a seat.

"Well that's a first," joked Jon, pouring the alcohol back into its container.

"Laurel doesn't work here any more, does she?" said Absedeus suddenly, after a brief silence. Jon kept quiet for a few minutes more before he turned to look at the turian.

"Why do want to know?"

"Why are you so  _damn_  secretive?" snapped Absedeus. Jon sighed, screwing the top back onto the bottle.

"I can tell that you must've known each other from… _somewhere_ ," he said. "I was sorry to see her go. She was not the best employee, however."

"That's  _why_  I want to know," said Absedeus, his mandibles clenching together in irritation. "I think I knew her from the…Incident."

"The First Contact War? So you don't remember, then? Because I think she remembers you. I'm not giving you any information if you're going to hurt her, buddy."

Absedeus lost his temper, grabbed the front of Jon's shirt and pulled him close into his face. It was the 'buddy' that did it, he thought.

"If you won't give me her surname maybe I can hire a private detective who'd beat the shit out of you to tell me?" he hissed.

"Tell me you won't hurt her, Marik," replied Jon. "I know who you are. Most people do. They know you're a drunk, lonely old turian who's prone to fits of anger." Absedeus shoved Jon backwards in frustration.

"You fucked her at some point? That's why you care so much about protecting her ass?" he snapped. Jon looked at Absedeus with, for the first time since he'd met him, pure contempt.

"She is like a daughter to me. I'd never had any of my own. Her own parents disowned her years ago. We've worked together for a long time. Now sod off. Get out of my bar, and don't ever come back."

Absedeus had no problem in turning back round and walking away from the bar.

With the surname, he could've easily remembered. Or would he? He couldn't strain his memory any further and didn't want to. What use was there in trailing after the past, a murky painful one at that?

He decided quickly that his search would promptly end there. He was tired of this human bar anyway.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drugs and a lot of swearing in the next following chapters. Read at discretion.

**One Year Later**

The batarian with eyes unblinking leaned against the railings in the thick, smoky area that was the Omega space station.

He stood outside the Afterlife club, listening to the faint sounds of booming music. The air was spicy but stiff with heat, and he looked towards the various buildings that rose out of the asteroid’s rock. She was taking her time, he thought, lighting up a cigarette. He puffed the smoke out into the red-amber light, looking down onto the run-down tenements below. Skycars whizzed by, but they were eerily silent. She was never on time, but that sort of thing was to be expected. She was a human, after all. If she showed up another fifteen minutes late, he considered getting El-Than and his gang to beat the living daylights out of her. But he stopped himself, blowing out more smoke through his slitted nostrils; she gave him what he wanted. He turned round when he heard footsteps. The human female, Laurel, was suddenly stood there with his goods. She was unremarkable looking for a human, with shoulder-length bushy brown hair and dressed in a tattered leather jacket.

“You’re late, again,” he sad, tossing his cigarette into the unknown depths below. “You forget I’m a fucking paying customer.”

She snorted at him as she drew out the bag of what he craved most.

“No way to talk to a lady, Oltan. Want it or not?” she said.

“Vallex?” he stated, snatching the bag from her fingers and inspecting it with the pads of his fingers. “The last one was shit, by the way.”

“I don’t _make_ it, asshole. I just deliver it. Rarm as well, for an extra fifty?” All four of his black eyes widened as she brought out another plastic pouch - this time it was pure, white powderous glory.

“Thirty,” he said. “I’m already giving you sixty for the vallex.”

“I’m not bartering with you, it’s either fifty or nothing,” she snapped back.

Oltan was still not used to the human presence and like everyone else found them a thorn in the galaxy’s side. They were young, aggressive, ambitious and immensely adaptable: whether that was a good thing or not he’d have to decide later. He was more tolerant than most of his society, but then maybe that was why he’d exiled himself to this particular dark corner of the Terminus Systems. He didn’t like this human and abruptly grabbed her arm, attempting to twist it and push her to the ground. To his astonishment she responded incredibly well – he assumed she was just another prostitute or stripper, caught up in a life of drugs. She slammed him into the ground with incredible force, completely winding him.

“Oops. Chipped a nail,” she said above him, digging the heel of her boot into his back, between his shoulders. He groaned in agony from the pressure exerted from her shoe.

“Ungh,” he moaned.

“Is it sixty or not, Oltan? You try a move like that on me again and I’ll cut your goddamn balls off.”

Well, this human simply _knew_ how to play. He tried to contain his anger and humiliation from being overpowered by a human. No one around them took any notice.

“Sixty,” he grunted. “Leave the…”

“Fucking thought so,” she snapped at him, turning him over with her boot and giving him a hard kick.

His ribs felt like they’d been kicked in, and he nearly let loose with a howl of agony. He brought up his omni-tool, tapping it weakly. She held hers up and saw a small light beeped. She smirked in satisfaction, making him want to claw her face off as he lay there like a total idiot. She threw his packet of vallex onto his face, hard enough that it bounced off and onto the ground.

“Enjoy,” she said, and turned round to walk off. Oltan immediately sat up, grabbing his bag quickly and standing up. He’d get that _bitch_. No human, no _female_ even, treated him like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello fellow fanfic readers. Thank you so much for all the support, feedback, kudos and views. I'm surprised this story has got the attention it did, as I only originally intended it to be something short. Well, it looks like that's changing :) Enjoy these chapters. 
> 
> *The drugs vallex and rarm mentioned are made-up (by me) and not featured in the ME universe. Red sand is immune to batarians as I found out on the ME wiki. Many other drugs also mentioned there are not particularly 'suitable' in this setting.


	13. Chapter 13

She hoisted her tiny drawstring bag up onto her shoulder.

The streets were damp and dark, probably from the water-sewerage system that was not far away. Steam was vented from the back of buildings as Laurel Westfahl crossed through another shortcut that she felt to be reliable. She tried to ignore the look of the homeless batarians and vorcha on the floor, or by makeshift fires tucked in a sinister corner. Meeting eyes would certainly lead to a fight of some kind and she hadn’t the energy, not after today. It was becoming taxing to have to defend herself physically each and every day after a nine-hour shift. Half the time she felt like she was working night shifts, as Omega did not have light and organised schedules like the Citadel. It was, all in all, a bloody nightmare.

Much like the Citadel Omega operated on the twenty-hour clock, which she still couldn't get used to after all this time. She returned home exhausted five nights a week, usually after having being coerced into either fighting or defending herself. That was one good thing the Alliance had given her – extensive physical combat and weapon handling. She wasn’t sure how she coped but the long shifts, the weekends spent selling drugs and then occasionally consuming drugs helped take her mind off the dark corners that it liked to visit very often.  
  
When the drugs made her unable to work, she was sacked almost immediately and she had to force herself to quit and start again. Now she just sold the drugs. Laurel pulled out her apartment’s card key after fiddling in the bottomless pit that was her bag. Her apartment, devoid of windows (apartments with windows were more expensive) was simply furnished with its joint living area and kitchen. One tiny bedroom, with an uncomfortable bed. She peeled her jumper and work dungarees off, wandering to the bathroom just in a camisole and pants.  
  
Splashing water on her face she looked at her thin, ashy face. When had she become so ugly? Her life had been a disaster so far: a rebellious adolescence, not helped with stiff, aloof parents and a military career cut disastrously short. No friends, no partners for years now, and she had lost contact with Jon since she left the Citadel. She was merely existing and not living, but she couldn’t bear to live, not as _herself._ But somehow, the will to solider on was there, although she had no idea why. Laurel ran a bath and sat in the hot water. She cried until there were no tears left. When she’d finished heaving and sobbing, sitting there in the now cool water feeling sorry for herself, she caught sight of a packet of red sand on the nearby sink.

“Why the hell am I still on this shitty station?” she murmured.  
  
She hadn’t cried like that for many years and it surprised her. A small weight had been lifted from her shoulders, but she still carried the heavy burden. It wasn’t like she was able to catch a flight off-station, not at the prices they were charging. To return to Earth or the Citadel? She found it easier adapting to a space station than a colony – there was something too off-putting for her about living on another planet. Too alien. Whatever it was, she knew she took herself with her wherever she went.  
  
That was, indeed, the problem.


	14. Chapter 14

 

“Why do you bother yourself with this petty human, Oltan?” said Kelk-Yan, a friend of Oltan’s, leaning against the wall near where the human female’s apartment resided.

“What? I’m surprised, Kelk. Usually _you_ jump at the chance to pummel humans into the ground,” Oltan replied, taking a drag of another cigarette. Kelk-Yan shrugged as he turned his gaze back to the apartment’s door.

“If anything you should’ve just taken the rarm. I haven’t had that stuff in years.”

“You think I’m a walking fucking bank? She already charged me a stupid amount for vallex. That stuff should be damn cheap, it’s Omega!” snapped Oltan, the smoke drifting out of his slits for nostrils furiously.

“You’ve got an expensive habit, my friend,” Kelk-Yan chuckled. His eyes still hadn’t moved from the doors.

“Yeah, well, my source of income was…”

“Terminated, yeah I know,” said Kelk-Yan.

Oltan’s long source of income happened to be a mercenary who was killed by a rival gang only the other week. Oltan chucked his cigarette away.

“Watch it, dickhead,” snapped an asari who walked by with a turian. The cigarette butt had nearly singed the fabric of her pants.

“I hate these aliens,” muttered Oltan.

“This human female you’re so willing to get revenge on has just exited her apartment,” informed Kelk-Yan. 

“I need that rarm,” said Oltan, walking quickly towards an average-sized female, carrying a large duffel bag. Oltan pulled out a sidearm that Kelk-Yan hadn’t previously noticed and held it up right towards her forehead. Her eyes registered surprised, but she didn’t put her hands up. Perhaps this human was no ordinary citizen – after all why would she be on Omega? No one came here to raise a family and put up their white picket fences. She cocked her head at Oltan questioningly.

“And what happens if I’ve sold it already?” she said, her tone quite innocent.

Unlike a lot of humans, she held her gaze very firmly on the first set of Oltan’s eyes. He aggressively pushed the barrel of the pistol further towards her, making her flinch only a centimetre.

“I’m not going to just stand here and give it to you, you cocksucker,” she said through gritted teeth. Oltan nearly baulked at her ferocity. Kelk-Yan knew this was going to become rather ugly soon. Oltan as a warning, shot the gun off to her right.

“Second one I might just accidentally hit your kneecap,” he said. She laughed at him.

“You got your vallex, Oltan, why so desperate for rarm? Or is it because you’re salty over me kicking your ass?”

“That’s it, I warned you,” he suddenly shouted, going to point the pistol at her knee, but Kelk-Yan pounced forward, grabbing Oltan’s arm.

“What the hell are you doing!?” Oltan yelled in response as he backed off away from the human.

“Let’s make a deal,” said Kelk-Yan quickly. “I see you’re a human not to be trifled with.” The human raised her eyebrows, folding her arms in response. Oltan was breathing heavily beside him.

“Tell me what you want, human. Looks like you’re going somewhere far? Off-station?” Kelk-Yan said. He always had the gift of the gab, something he’d always admired himself for. He wouldn’t be surprised if she was looking for a ride elsewhere, anywhere was better than this hellhole, especially for humans.

“What makes you think I’m inclined to tell _you_?” she replied.

“I know a free ride. Bunch of mercs, but a couple of them are human,” began Kelk-Yan. Oltan inwardly groaned: why was he helping this bitch?

“I’m not at ease with humans any more than a vorcha. Especially if they're mercs,” she retorted. Oltan snorted at her in response - his sentiments exactly. Kelk-Yan pulled his lipless mouth into something that resembled a smile.

“Keep saying things like that and maybe we’ll come to like you,” he said. “If you find enough vallex to dust us into the next solar system, I can find a way to get you on that ship.” The human female seemed to consider him for a small moment, letting the duffel bag drop from her hand that had previously been hoisted onto her shoulder.

“What’s this merc group?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.

“Blue Suns,” replied Kelk-Yan. 

 “Destination?” she asked.

“Illium, but they can make an exception for you,” said Kelk-Yan. “They are good friends of mine.”

“Would they really want to waste their time dropping me off somewhere? Illium isn’t exactly in immediate relay-jumping distance.” Kelk-Yan had to give her credit for all these cautious questions, but he was more than done talking with her.

“Why don’t you meet them at Afterlife in a couple of hours, with us and find out,” he said, smiling again. “Perhaps you can impress enough to convince them.”

“What act like I’m another one of the fucking stripper gang?”

Kelk-Yan merely looked at her in puzzlement. Oltan stepped in this time.

“He means don’t insult them like you’re insulting us,” he snapped. “And think about ditching your poor taste in clothing.” She was quiet in thought for a few minutes.

“How much do you want? Of the vallex and rarm?” she finally asked.

“You didn’t hear me, whatever your name is?” said Kelk-Yan, his tone less than friendly now. “Enough to dust us into another system.” She considered that for a little while before nodding, fury etched on her ashen face, and turned away.

They watched her until she disappeared.


	15. Chapter 15

Nervousness ran through each vein of her body as Laurel left her apartment for the final time, heading towards Afterlife. Thankfully she didn’t live far from it, and the walk took her five minutes. Her palms felt clammy and her heart began to thump hard. She didn’t take heed of the batarians ‘fashion’ advice, other than she chose a more appealing camisole underneath a much lighter jacket. If they thought she was going to stroll in an alien nightclub in a G-string and fuck-all else, they had another thing coming. She tried to tame her wild bushy hair to no avail and eventually left it. As she headed towards Afterlife, she could see Oltan and his friend stood outside as promised. Oltan was smoking a cigarette as usual. As she climbed the steps past the long queue of club-goers, Oltan’s friend Kelk-Yan walked over to her.

“I almost thought you wouldn’t show up, human,” he said, giving her a once-over, which made her grimace. She was not looking forward going into this club.

“Let’s get this over with,” was all she said. She made sure she had loaded herself up beforehand: two daggers sheathed stealthily in her cargo pants, and two sidearms in the inside pockets of her light black jacket. Oltan didn’t say anything, and just glared at her, his arms crossed. She moved to go on in, but Kelk-Yan held his hand up.

“We’re not going in until you give us the drugs,” he said, his tone unfriendly once more.

“How do I know you’ll keep your word, batarian?” she snapped. “Unlikely I'm gonna trust you at this point.” She knew the vallex was easy to get hold of, but the rarm not so much. She pulled out one of the packets of vallex and threw it into Oltan’s face as hard as she could.

“I’ll give you your vallex,” she said. “But you’re not getting the rarm until I’m certain you’ll keep your word.”

She was tempted not to give them the rarm. She was tempted to shoot them both in the head, along with the scum that was the Blue Suns. Hell, she’d nuke this entire station to hell and back. Kelk-Yan regarded her for a short moment, before nodding and waving her on in first. Laurel didn’t wait around, and went straight in after Kelk-Yan had flashed some members pass at the bouncer. Laurel could hear Oltan muttering in disagreement behind her, but she ignored him as they entered the main bar area. She hadn’t been in here before, but she wasn’t very surprised or flattered by its interior: the usual dancers, the usual music, the bartenders and seedy customers. It was difficult to see in the dingy, orangey-red light, lit up by the huge neon cylinder in the middle of the large room. She turned to the batarians behind her for guidance, and Kelk-Yan pointed to a booth at the back of the room. They passed several asari and turians who were sat up at the bar, some who turned round to stare at her. Humans still weren’t exactly popular, even after ten years. _Especially_ on Omega. Soon enough they approached the table, occupied by a batarian, two humans and a turian. Two of the humans were men, one who was scruffy looking and tiredly smoking a cigar.

“Bout time you showed up,” he grunted. “Is this the cargo?”

“As promised,” Kelk-Yan replied, smiling horridly with his lipless mouth. She was getting tired of this entire bullshit charade already.

“If you’re talking about me, you can _forget_ it," she said, and whipped out her sidearm, pointing it straight at the scruffy man’s head. Everyone moved at once. She had about a dozen guns pointed in her direction, one that included in the side of her head.

“Careful, human, you don’t know who you’re dealing with,” said one of the other batarians. She heard them muttering amongst each other, and only caught the name ‘Aria.’ Oh yes, she was not as stupid as they thought.

“You brought a mouthy human female with weapons, Kelk?” laughed the other human guy. “Did you tell her to leave her toys at home?”

Her blood boiled. She brought out the packet of rare suddenly and ripped it open. The powder, like snow, sprinkled to the ground. She heard Oltan give a cry of outrage, and brought out her sidearm to shoot beside his foot. He yelped as he jumped in fright. 

The first human merc put out his cigar and looked at her inquisitively, a chuckle at the back of his throat.

“Maybe I’ll let you live and board with us if you take off that jacket and show us what else you’ve got stashed in there,” he said, signalling to the rest of his crew to lower their weapons. Oh, she was only _too_ happy to oblige, although her heart pounded so hard she felt like it was pressing against the sides of her throat.

“What are you talking about? We had a deal,” snapped Oltan, standing forward and pointing his finger in the scruffy man’s direction. The scruffy man ignored him as he scrutinised Laurel taking off her jacket. She had tonnes of it, and she didn’t explain where she got it. She threw various sachets and packets all down onto the table in front of them roughly.

“Excellent,” smiled the scruffy man. The turian, whom she hadn’t noticed until this point, leaned in towards him.

“This is _not_ a good idea,” he hissed. She watched this turian lean into the scruffy man, whose face remained unfazed and waved him away. The turian, who dwarfed all the others, had greenish washed out colony markings, barely visible against his dark plates. The ball dropped. For a second she thought he was not who she thought he was. But he was. _Marik_. The galaxy clearly wasn’t big enough for the both of them. She didn’t have time to properly process this for another turian walked over towards them.

“No firing of firearms, you know the rule Hobb!” The scruffy man who was named Hobb only regarded the turian with a plain look.

“Don’t get your fucking turian panties in a twist, Grizz, we’ll be outta here soon enough,” he replied. The turian bouncer’s mandibles clenched together, narrowing his eyes.

“You don’t want to be pissing off the boss today,” was all he said. Hobb drew up his gun, and fired two shots into Oltan and Kelk-Yan, whose bodies then fell lifelessly to the floor. Screams erupted round the club and the turian bouncer span round with a ‘what the fuck!’ Hobb drew out a wad of credits, hard currency that was not often seen, and threw it onto the table.

“Sorry about the mess,” he said. Before they could move, a striking asari, levitated by her sphere of biotic power moved down in front of them suddenly, blocking their exit. The smug look on Hobb’s face vanished within an instant.

“Aria!”

“Surprised I’m here, Mire?” Aria T’Loak addressed the batarian, turning her attention to Hobbs. “Any idea why the fuck you’re having a shootout in _my_ club? Why are there two dead batarians on the floor?” Her eyes drifted down to the various packets of vallex on the table in front of them.

“This is your last warning Hobbs,” spoke Aria. Laurel was fully aware who she was, having lived on Omega for the last seven months. You didn’t piss her off and that was all she had needed to know. Aria drew out a heavy pistol and shot Hobbs just below the knee. He screamed in pain.

“Oh _fuck!_ What the fucking Jesus-”

“You try and start another fight in my club again I’ll blow your damn head off. You’re more trouble than you’re worth,” she said, holstering her weapon. “Grizz! Clean this mess up.” The batarian next to Hobbs put a shoulder under him, hauling him as he keened and wailed.

“She shot me in the goddamn knee! Argh, fuck!” Aria hadn’t moved away yet, suddenly staring at Laurel, a little too closely.

“You’re trying to sell some of my best mercs vallex just when they’re about to complete a job for me? I don’t want them high and shooting fucking patterns into the wall next to the guy I want dead,” she challenged Laurel, although this time her voice wasn’t nearly as threatening. Laurel felt it was best at this point to keep a hold on her tongue. Her eyes met Aria’s.

“Aria, it wasn’t the deal,” began the Blue Suns turian. _Him_ , the back of her mind said in a small voice.

“I know, Marik, you washed-out coot,” she said, waving her hand at him. “Just wanted to see this little one _squirm_ for a bit.” Laurel didn’t even flinch as Aria examined her like a textbook, looking her up and down.

“Could do with a gal in the club, not nearly enough of them,” she said. Laurel’s heart began to sink slightly, knowing she meant the Blue Suns.

“Think you could take Hobbs place?” Aria finished. Laurel could feel Marik’s gaze burn into her.

“What’s the catch?” she said. Aria suddenly laughed.

“Oh so she _does_ talk!” she said. “No catch, and it's not like you have a choice, sweetie. Your involvement means Hobbs is now an invalid…he couldn’t shoot for shit anyway…You’ll take his place, providing you can hold a gun. Complete this job and I’ll give you what you want.” Laurel folded her arms.

“What mission? And how do you know what _I_ want?” Aria leaned in closer. She was a little bit too close for comfort now, and she lifted her long-fingered hand to touch the bushy mane that was Laurel’s hair.

“Oh I don’t know…I can see you _want_ to leave Omega, but something compels you to stay. I can see you’re lonely…”

“It’s a hellhole,” Laurel replied.

“Honey your hair is a hellhole,” said Aria, twanging a particularly curly strand. “You can take Hobbs’ paycheck…He won’t be needing it.” Laurel bit her lip in contemplation as she heard Hobbs continually curse and weep. What had she got herself into?

“What’s the mission?” she asked finally. Aria laughed at her again.

“ _Mission_? What, you used to be part of that human Alliance? It’s a damn job. A scumbag stole from me and ran away to Illium. I want it back, and him dead. Don’t care how you do it. They’ve got a large corporate, criminal empire based there-”

“And you’re sending in _four_ mercs?” interrupted Laurel.

“You think I’m stupid enough to piss off a massive criminal empire with infinite reach? No I just want that one bastard dead and my fucking credits back. All five hundred million of them,” finished Aria.

 _It’s not like I have a choice,_ Laurel said to herself. But the thought of accompanying a mercenary group on a potentially risky mission was not one she welcomed with open arms. Especially one that involved a turian ex-captain who had her tortured during the First Contact War. Would she have the pleasure of telling him what really happened ten years ago during this oh-so-wonderful trip? She didn’t know. All that she did know was when they turned away and walked out of the club to the docks, she was shit scared.


	16. Chapter 16

They boarded a small frigate which had been extensively modified. It definitely wasn’t human in design, and Laurel suspected batarian. The other human whose name was Banks still dragged Hobbs along anyway, who moaned and groaned the entire way down. In her duffel bag she had the entirety of her possessions, refusing a trip back to her apartment to collect anything else. She'd already paid the last of her expensive rent and someone else had already moved in. She wasn’t going to miss it.

“What’s the point of bringing him?” hissed Marik who walked ahead of them all, turning briefly to stare at Hobbs.  
  
He hadn’t made eye contact with her, but if he hadn’t remembered her before, he certainly wouldn’t now. From some celebrated general to an alcoholic? Now a mercenary working for a crime boss on a seedy space station? It was near unbelievable and she briefly wondered if she had the wrong turian. He’d been so disciplined and straight-laced. He even outshone her old sergeant - the Alliance sergeant who trained her when a rookie, had been a restrained toff who had a metal rod stuck so far up his ass he couldn’t walk straight. She nearly paled at this comparison; why was she joking about it _now_?

“You need a doctor,” said Laurel flatly, who was near Hobbs. He snorted at her through his pain.

“I ain’t going to a doctor, lady,” he spat. “I’ve medi-gelled it.”  
  
The batarian who trailed behind them, was standoffish and quiet like most batarians. Unlike Kelk-Yan, she thought, he was an exception. Inside the frigate was cramped and dark, with wires hanging from the ceiling. Nothing like the clean, streamlined interiors of Alliance frigates.

“What a dump,” she muttered, nearly tripping over a crate full of weapon parts as they moved through the airlock into the ship.  
  
Yellow lights bleeped on some large inbuilt computer as they entered the large area behind the cockpit. It looked like it was the mess hall as well as the navigation centre, with a table in the middle. She saw plates, cups and saucepans strewn around everywhere.

“Ooh, careful there,” said Banks, bending his head slightly as he struggled to drag Hobbs over to one of the chairs by the table. “Don’t let Mire catch you talking shit about batarian frigates.”

“I couldn’t give a damn what he thinks,” said Laurel, kicking a crate out of her way. It span across the floor, wires and other pieces of junk spilling out of it.

“It may not look like much, but Aria has kitted it out with the latest technology. Not the technology your beloved human Alliance can get their ugly fingers on,” said Mire from behind, nearly making her jump with his sudden closeness.

Laurel span back round and met his black eyes. She saw Marik close the airlock behind them, having to bend down significantly due to his extreme height. She didn’t say anything as she continued to meet Mire’s eyes.

“If we’re going to complete the job, we need to get along,” said Marik behind them, his deep voice rumbling.

She supressed a shudder, turning away from Mire to seat herself at the table. Mire did the same, although he made sure he was sat far from her on the other end. Marik approached Laurel as she sat there, towering over her. She didn’t look at him, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. It felt as exactly as she remembered. An alien presence, intense fear, unknown surroundings. And him towering over her like she was an ant. 

“That means not provoking your temporary squad while you're on that job,” he said to her.

There was clear antagonism in his voice, but that didn’t surprise her. She knew he hated humans as much as anyone else. She still didn’t meet his eyes as he stood there, who eventually turned away to sit down at the table.

“Hobbs, you have the data?” said Banks.

Hobbs chucked some computer chip onto the table, which Banks grabbed and inserted it onto a portable terminal, looking like it connected to the table. A blue 3D image of a building appeared in front of them, hovering above the table.

“We have the name of the bloke who has the five hundred million,” said Banks. “His name is Scott. Human, caucasian, male. He’s some top dog in this corporation.” Using a stylus, Banks pressed it onto the terminal, which brought up what looked like extranet information.

“Oprikar, Inc? I’ve heard of that name,” said Laurel, sitting up as she strained her eyes to read the information.

“Big family business. Alongside covert criminal activities it mainly deals in weapon parts for all kinds of vessels, don’t matter what kind. Some of it is illegally tested and dangerous. Sells to criminals, guerrilla groups, mercenaries, corrupt military officials and politicians…”

“Assholes, then?” finished Laurel.

“Do we know what he looks like?” said Marik.

“No,” said Banks. “There’s little information on him, it seems he’s kept his tracks well hidden. All we know he’s ex-Alliance military.”

“You might have something in common,” the bavarian Mire suddenly said to Laurel.

“What makes you think I’m with the Alliance?” she snapped.

“It’s the way you carry yourself,” said Marik suddenly. “You have the pose of a soldier.”

She tried not to prickle at this, but her palms were sweaty. She suddenly could feel beads of perspiration on her temples and upper lip. _Why oh why am I here?_

“What skills do you have…whatever your name is?” said Banks. There was a brief silence.

“Other than in bed, he means,” said Hobbs, his face muffled by his arms as he slouched on the table. It took all the strength and poise she had not to shoot his other knee. 

“I can hold a gun and shoot,” she said.

“ _Anything_ else?” said Banks tiredly.

“Even if I was with the Alliance, what does it matter now? I sold drugs and lived on Omega.”

“The great shining example of humanity,” sneered Mire.

“If I could put a fucking bullet in your brain right now I would,” she said to him through gritted teeth.

“The feeling’s mutual,” he replied.

“Enough!” shouted Marik, nearly making her jolt out of her chair. Her heart was thundering from his sudden movement. They all fell silent for a moment, save for the muffled grumbling and groaning of Hobbs.

“Aria didn’t give us a plan,” continued Banks. “She just said kill him and find her the money. All I know is that he holds some high-stakes quasar event at his casino this time of the year, according to an inside source. Scott usually likes to challenge his enemies. And he usually wins.”

“What inside source?” asked Laurel.

“An sari, Dellria, who works at the casino. Not a member of the Blue Suns, but works part-time as intelligence for Aria,” said Banks. “The event is probably the most inconspicuous way to try and find Scott and where he’s kept the money and kill him, without getting their attention.” He drew up a 3D map of the casino, zooming in on it with his stylus.

“Place is heavily guarded, which according to Dellria, works in Scott’s favour. We should hear more from her when we get there, she’s agreed to meet at a bar, Eternity, before we find Scott.”

“And then what?” Laurel snapped. Banks looked like he was going to lose his patience with her.

“This isn’t a normal Blue Suns kind of operation, human,” said Marik in reply. She ignored him as she felt his eyes burn through her.

“Dellria gave the impression when I last spoke to her that she had more information, but couldn’t do it over the comm. She has to meet us in private,” finished Banks. Laurel sat back in her chair, having run out of questions. How complicated was this going to be? It made her feel nervous, especially now that Marik was here. She had time to contemplate now that it was quiet.

“ETA for Crescent Nebula is seven hours after we relay into the system,” said Mire, more to Marik and Banks than her. He stood up and walked over to the cockpit. She guessed he was the pilot, seeing as it was a batarian ship. Banks stood up, tapping Hobbs roughly on the shoulder, who groaned in response.

“C’mon, let’s get you to the med room,” he said. They began to move. She couldn’t bear being left with Marik. She’d find the darkest, quietest spot on the ship and hide there.


	17. Chapter 17

“Owww! Jesus! Can’t you be a little more careful?” snapped Hobbs as Banks did his best to patch up the gunshot wound.

“I’m not a medic,” snapped Banks. “There’s shattered bone. You’re gonna have to see someone when we get to Nos Astra. Get rid of your goddamn stuck-up pride before you do it.”

He peeled his bloody latex gloves off and shoved them in the bin. He then peered his head round to look at Mire in the cockpit.

“How long now, ugly?” he called over.

“Sixty minutes,” came the reply.

They planned to dock at one of Nos Astra’s many ports, at the one closest to the bar Eternity, which happened to be near the Nos Astra exchange. Meanwhile Laurel bided her time in the extremely cramped engineering space. It was nothing like she’d seen before, looking more like a human diesel engine from the twentieth century. She’d take care not to tell the batarian that – who looked like he wanted to pummel her into the ground. The engines were noisy, dank and the place stank to high heaven of oil. Laurel managed to find a dry spot on the cool metal floor, but she had to muffle her ears with ear defenders as she got down there. It was also incredibly dark, and she could imagine murders had taken place here. However, it was much preferable to being up there with the three of them. She had made a small comfy space, sleeping on her jacket as she draped one of her thicker hoodies over her body as a blanket. Her sleep was stunted by eerie dreams, more than likely being the result of sleeping in an alien engine room. An hour before they arrived she ended up pouring through her duffel bag, making sure she had everything. Her weapons were already sheathed and holstered: two daggers and two pistols.

She had reloaded the pistols several times, poking at them. Four sets of clothes, which she had bundled up into a tight ball. A datapad, worth more than it actually looked, due to its content. A curiously old-fashioned faded photograph, edged by an unadorned silver frame. The picture was of a bird of prey, an osprey. She suddenly heard a door close, knowing it was the door to the engine room. She shoved everything into her bag at the speed of light, spinning round to see Marik walk down the metal stairs into the engine room. Laurel grabbed her bag and drew it round her body, underneath one of her arms. She didn’t tell them that she had a compactable shotgun strapped to her thigh, disguised by her combat pants. They were baggy and had large pockets, which covered the large bulk on the front of her thigh. Being Blue Suns she thought they wouldn’t have cared about the weapons on her. However it seemed they  _did_ , although they hadn’t gone to great lengths such as patting her down. She should’ve known it would be him that would come down to check up on her. He had that uncanny habit of watching her like a hawk - although if she was honest with herself, turian features had the look of predatory hawks  _anyway_. But it didn’t make her feel any more comfortable.

“Is there any reason why you have decided to set up camp here, human?” he began loudly, looking round at the oily surface of the engine room. She had her back to him, resting a foot on a pipe while doing her laces up.

“None’a your business,” Laurel shouted back to him.

She could feel him her approaching her, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Promptly finishing her other boot, she turned round to meet him in the eye, drawing her sharp breath in through her nostrils. She’d forgotten how  _tall_  he was – turians were tall of course, but he was ridiculous. His piercing yellow eyes, sharp and cold – at at least to her – assessed her with his talons behind his back. Even if his oh-so wonderful status had been rescinded, he still stood nauseatingly straight like a solider. She’d seen a few turians slump in their height, but he looked as if he walked with a metal rod up his backside.

“Whatever you do, human, is my business. You’re on our ship, doing our job, working for our boss. The both of us will probably carry out the majority this job. Hobbs is injured, Banks and Mire decided it would look too conspicuous if we all turn up unannounced at this high-stakes quasar event,” he announced. He must’ve seen her face crease up instantly because he then interrupted her.

“I don’t like it any more than you do. In fact the thought of it is making me feel positively nauseous,” he said.

“Well I’m sure the bar will quench your anxious  _needs_ ,” she bit back, not really thinking. He seemed to stop during his train of thought, the large mandibles on his face tightening.  

“What are you  _implying_ , human?” he snapped.

She tried not to flinch at the sound of that voice – an all too familiar voice.  _Do not provoke him_ , a voice said at the back of her mind. It was the only reasonable voice she had and it had been fading fast over the years. Yet the unreasonable part of her wanted revenge, even though it was a daring, ludicrous idea. If they were ever to physically fight the likeliest outcome would be his victory, if only due to his considerably large physique. She had to remember that he hadn’t been the one to torture her for information, having used lesser soldiers to do his dirty work. Somehow this sliver of knowledge was unwelcome to her and felt much worse.

“Stop calling me 'human',” she said. “Not considered polite when we’re in good company.” His face contorted a little more, but he shifted his feet and turned back to the stairs.

“You forget humans are not as common in the Terminus Systems. What do you  _want_  to be called, then?”

“I don’t want you to call me anything,” she snapped, trailing after him. “I presume you came down here to ‘fetch’ me?” She watched his unusual legs bend as he climbed the stairs and his three-fingered taloned hands clutch the banister. She supressed a shiver.

“We will be arriving in twenty-five minutes,” he said, not turning back round to face her.

When she arrived at the navigation room again, Banks was packing a large bag on the mess table. Hobbs was asleep in the corner of the room on the couch, his leg propped up. Mire was still in the cockpit, but through the window she could see many skyscrapers against a violet sky backdrop. She watched them gather their weapons together. They were taking far too much in her opinion, but only Marik stuck to an assault rifle and a heavy pistol.

“A fucking grenade launcher?” she said when she caught sight of the weapon in Mire’s hands.

“You have to be prepared,” said Banks. “We don’t want them coming after us in one of their gunships. If we blow our cover or they find out, that is.”

“You’re  _asking_  for it,” she replied.

A second later she heard the large weapon slam to the ground. A mottled brown hand came up to her face, taking her jaw. With surprising force, Mire slammed her against the cold metal hull, his fingers digging into her cheeks. The back of her skull felt like it had split open, and it was difficult not to release a shriek of pain. Her hands in reaction had grabbed his shoulders but he suddenly held a switchblade under her chin, stopping her from shoving him away.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t cut out your tongue, human,” he hissed, poking the tip of the blade into the underside of her chin.

She painfully swallowed, feeling the proximity of the blade, the tendons in her neck sticking out like thin cables.

“You really want a reason?” she managed, staring at the black pitiless holes he had for eyes. He seemed to take her in for a moment, looking for some possible flaw or weakness in her expression.

“That’s enough, Mire,” said Marik from behind them.

Mire gave her already throbbing jaw a painful squeeze and turned away in anger, marching back to the cockpit. Banks and Marik were staring at her.

“It would be unwise to provoke him further,” said Banks, hoisting his large bag onto his shoulder.

The ship had been on autopilot for the last twenty minutes, and they were close to docking. She didn’t say anything, only picking up her bag that had fallen onto the floor. She noticed they were dressed in lighter armour without the flashy blueness of the Blue Suns attire. When the ship finally docked and they gathered at the airlock, Banks turned towards Laurel who hung at the back of the group.

“You fuck this up, then it’s Aria who you’ll really be pissing off. Not us,” he said.

“She won’t live to see Aria’s wrath,” mumbled Mire.

They said nothing else when the door hissed and shot open, revealing a docking port. These were the biggest bunch of callous, sexist, violent bastards she’d ever travelled with.

* * *

 


	18. Chapter 18

Dellria was nestled in a cosy corner of the bar Eternity, sipping a cocktail. They dropped off Hobbs at the nearest hospital, saying they’d meet him back on Omega when this was over. Laurel kept her mouth closed, not wanting to provoke another altercation with Mire. She would bide her time. They didn’t know she was once Alliance, and could fight well after all these years. Marik still looked as if he didn’t recognise her, not even as the woman who served him drinks over a year ago. She hoped it would stay that way. Dellria greeted them, soon ordering drinks for the group.

“You’re replacing Hobbs then?” she said, eyeing Laurel.

She wore a long dress, which seemed to be the current fashion and had unusual white markings around her eyes.

“Long story short, girl here was set up by some batarian junkies, hoping to catch a flight off-world. Ended up selling 'em pretty short, as Hobbs wanted in. They ended up dead, and he shot in the kneecap,” explained Banks. Dellria smirked, swirling her cocktail in her hand.

“Sounds like the work of Aria,” she said. “I’m glad you’ve got a female in your team this time round. It’s gonna make this job a whole lot easier.”

Laurel shifted uncomfortably in her seat. The bartender, also an asari, came over with their drinks. Laurel eyed the alcohol, but did not touch it.

“Info?” said Banks, after swallowing a large sip of his drink.

“How do we know this place isn’t bugged?” hissed Marik, leaning over towards Dellria. She just continued to smile easily.

“Don’t worry, handsome. I know the owner of this bar. Anyway, Scott holds this high-stakes quasar event every year. He likes to bankrupt others and watch them squirm. He is incredibly skilled at it and has had a lot of practice,” she said.

“However, he’s immediately invested Aria’s money in this pro-human group, Cerberus. I don’t what exactly he’s funding, but it’s some dirty little lab secret and he doesn’t want anyone to know about it. We won't find out now. The facility was recently infiltrated and destroyed by the STG after the Council found out that some salarian official had been kidnapped. We won’t know what Cerberus was up to, but Scott lost his investment because of it. And now he’s going to have to win it back.”

“So what you’re saying is that two of us need to beat him at his own game?” said Marik, his deep voice stern with disapproval. Dellria didn’t blink.

“That’s fucking impossible,” snapped Banks. “No. We go back and tell Aria her money is good as gone-”

“She doesn’t take no for an answer,” growled Mire. His drink had been completely downed. “That money is as good as real.”

“You need to beat him, yes,” began Dellria again, casting her large indigo eyes over them.

“I ain’t good at gambling,” said Banks.

“I’d recommend someone who is, then,” said Dellria. “I can get you in, but the tickets are limited. He doesn’t just let any old kook in. And it’s smart dress. So you can’t walk in armour. Or what she’s wearing.” Dellria waved her hand over Laurel’s attire.

“Well, lady, I am not a fan of the current fashion, either,” replied Laurel.

She’d be damned if she was to wear those long slim-fitting dresses with the holes in them. Dellria ignored her. Mire sat back against the chair with his arms crossed.

“Fuck wearing formal,” he snapped.

“Oh Goddess,” Dellria rolled her eyes. “You’re bunch of-”

“The two of us will go,” announced Marik, his deep voice drowning out everyone else’s. Everyone turned to stare at him in surprise.

“Us?” said Banks. “I’m not being your date for the night buddy, as handsome as you are-”

“The human woman,” he replied. Laurel frowned at him. How could this possibly get worse? She stood up quickly.

“Don’t even try,” said Banks, this time pointing a pistol at her legs, hiding it behind the table.

“Haven’t you threatened me enough?” she said, exasperated. Normally, she’d get on and do this sort of thing. She’d done odd jobs before, _hell_ , she sold drugs to batarians on Omega. Spending a night in a casino trying to win back five hundred million credits with someone who had her tortured? She wet her lips, her body trembling with mixed anger, adrenaline and fear.

“We’re not gonna fuck this up because you got cold feet,” snapped Banks. “You don’t have a choice. Sit down or you walk to the casino with your foot in a cast.”

She sat back down, but her hands were trembling out of fear this time, more than anger. The rest of them ignored her, but she could feel Marik’s eyes on her.

 

* * *

 

It was seven-thirty pm, and the event wasn’t due to start until nine. Dellria had obtained two tickets for them, saying she would be working at the bar. They were to go in, win the money, transfer the money, and then be picked up by Banks and Mire who’d come by in a cab. It sounded too easy. Laurel nervously paced in her hotel room – one that Dellria had kindly paid for (or didn’t, she had no idea) – until her feet began to feel sore in her new heels. She examined herself in the full-length mirror. Her hair as normal was a goddamn disaster but the black strapless jumpsuit actually made her feel and look better than usual.

Dellria had surreptitiously set up a hidden camera in the bar, which happened to be near the large quasar table, where Mire and Banks would survey the situation. Laurel had never been one for formal events, not now, in any case. She hadn’t been to something like this since she was a teenager – and that was usually drunk and drug filled house parties where everyone was in their underwear. She managed to tame her frizzy hair slightly by the time there was a knock at the door. Fixing some earrings in her ears, she palmed the button by the door and it slid open. She continued to try and fix her jewellery, but it seemed her ears had closed up in the last few years. Laurel saw Marik step into the room, his arms behind his back.

“We need to leave, promptly,” he announced.

She gave up with her earrings and grabbed a small clutch bag, turning to face him. In her heels she was now a good five foot seven, but it was still ridiculously short in comparison to him. He wore a close-fitting black and white suit, outlining his peculiar thin waist and broad shoulders. His yellow eyes briefly drifted over her form, but he turned and motioned her out before him. She had to admit she enjoyed dressing up for this occasion – she hadn’t worn perfume in years and buying shoes, particularly red velvet kitten heels, was a luxury she thought she’d forgotten. If he was waiting for her to compliment him, she left him in silence. Awkwardly, he cleared his throat, drawing his eyes back up to hers.

“The event won't start until nine, but I thought getting there earlier will introduce and familiarise us with the surroundings,” he said.

“No alcohol,” she said simply, meeting his cold eyes. He stiffened in his height a little.

“If I am to win this, I will at least need a drink,” he snapped, making her jump a little. She had to bite her tongue in order to hold herself back.

“Why don’t I play, and avoid a potential disaster if you get drunk,” she replied.

He stepped a little closer to her, so that he now had to look down at her rather than across towards her. She could smell a sort of cologne now that he was near her. It was too hard to crane her head to look at him, so she made do with looking at the plain wall on her right.

“What I do with my alcohol is _my_ business, woman,” he said. “And I do not trust a simple drug dealer to win a high-stakes quasar game.”

“Oh so it’s woman, now?” she suddenly laughed, but stopped quickly when she saw how closely he was analysing her.

“You need to cover up that mark on your jaw,” he stated, pointing towards her face. She turned away abruptly, embarrassed.

“I don’t have anything to cover it up. Why don’t you ask Mire? He was the one who gave it to me.”

Why did that feel oddly personal? He had a way of looking at her as if he could read her mind.

“It’s too noticeable. I haven’t forgotten how easily humans mark,” he said. She wanted to hit him.

“Oh yeah? You would know how easily humans mark, wouldn’t you?” she snapped at him. Her arms were folded across her chest self-consciously, but she hadn’t turned back to face him.

“If we are going to tolerate each other, human, then I suggest you refrain from provoking me,” he said darkly.

With shaking fingers, she brought up her omni-tool and dialled Dellria. Dellria, miraculously, gave her the code to her own hotel room, which turned out to be her apartment. Finding the transparent concealer, it took less than five minutes for Laurel to smear it over the purple-blue bruise that was spread across her jaw and chin. Marik waited outside in silence and they walked to the end of the street outside to grab a cab without another word. The Silver Coast Casino it was called, and Laurel saw a long line of people waiting outside to get their tickets checked. Marik got out of the cab first, offering a hand to her, but she ignored it and stepped past him to join the queue. Marik suddenly seized her bony elbow and pulled her back into him, nearly making her stumble.

“Our cover will be blown if you do not cooperate,” he said quietly into her left ear, making her prickle.

“By not holding your hand? You’ll be expecting me to kiss you next, turian,” she said, but her voice was shaking.

She wanted him to let her go… _Please let me go…_ She couldn’t bear him so close to her breathing down her neck, especially as so much of her skin was exposed.

“No but we’ve got to appear as if we are enjoying ourselves,” he said, turning her around to face him. “At least tell me what you are called.”

“L-Laura,” she bit out. He looked perturbed by her stammer, but made no comment.

“Absedeus,” he replied. “If you are nervous then perhaps a drink will quell your apprehension.”

_Lord_ , was all she thought as she nodded and they joined the queue.


	19. Chapter 19

It was grander than Laurel expected, _much_ grander than the one she remembered on the Citadel. It still had the suspended spherical ornaments, round corner booths and electric purple-blue lighting, yet the space it inhabited was much larger. Laurel was aware Silver Coast was a run by a pair of asari sisters who ran several branches on Illium, one on the Citadel and another asari colony she’d forgotten the name of. It was the sort of place that attracted many well-to-do socialites, businessmen and what might be termed the urban bourgeois of the galaxy. Back on Earth, Laurel only remembered in her country of birth run-down casinos with slot machines, where men with scraggly beards and tired dogs stood outside smoking cigarettes. In fact, the place was so decked out with chandeliers, waiters and ball gowns that she felt somewhat underdressed.

It was apparently a casino which allowed smoking as well, for she saw several asari smoking out of long holders. It smelt completely unfamiliar to her and she had to hold her breath slightly as she caught a whiff. Laurel hadn’t noticed that Marik had been marching in front of her, refusing to walk beside her. He was heading, as she guessed, to the bar, which was crowded and noisy. She had to stretch her legs to catch up, but she didn’t want to push it either; she had to survive several hours in heels. Even if those heels were not as high as some of the human women here. It fact it was so conservative a few had turned round to stare at her outfit – not nearly enough flare or jewellery for their tastes. Not to mention the various tattoos that was on her arms. Was it always so stiff?

“Straight reynor,” she heard Marik say to the batarian bartender. Marik had already sat himself down at the bar.

“Is this how we get used to the surroundings?” she said, stepping up beside him to watch the batarian pour the turian whiskey into a clear glass. “The bottom of your glass?”

“Keep your mouth shut, human,” was all he snapped, making her balk a little.

God fucking _damn_ him, how she’d like to knock him to the ground. That would depend on if she could – she wasn’t sure how squishy or hard turians were, but they looked damned _rigid_ to her. She saw the batarian nearly smirk at Marik’s cutting remark. Her whole body was taut and tense with supressed anger and fear. She stood there, quite still until the batarian handed the drink to Marik, who snatched it and took a sip.

“Bathroom,” was all she said after this, turning round.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he hissed to her. “Just because you’re doing our job doesn’t mean you’re trusted.”

“I think you can stop insulting me,” she hissed back. “I’m not so stupid as to cock this up. Unless you’d like me to shit on the floor?”

Some woman next to them made a face at her language and moved off, complaining to her partner.

“Anyone corrected you on your atrocious language?” he said half a minute later, almost jokily.

She returned it with a stony glare and moved towards the bathroom, passing many others on the way - mostly asari, salarian and turian. Walking into the stall, she took out a packet of pills. She popped one out, letting it then dissolve on her tongue as she flushed the toilet. It would take another five to ten minutes for the drug to work. The last ten years had seen fits and starts of heart palpitations - an intense anxiety that had plagued her from head to toe whenever she’d been reminded of something she wished to forget. Since she had seen Marik, it began again: a close pressing on her chest with her heart feeling as if it was going to stop. Clammy palms with the feeling like she was going to throw the contents of her insides out. For this evening, she needed to be calm. The sickness drifted off, and she returned to the bar. It was not yet that time where people had either become drunk or started dancing. A lot of mingling was happening. Marik was sat in the same place, and she sucked in a large breath before walking back to him. No wonder she needed medication. These days had been too taxing on her mental state. Usually she had learnt to box it away and never touch it. The look of him she could barely stand either, which didn’t help.

He glanced at her as she approached, but didn't say anything. It was going to be a long hour, and she knew he wanted to be here early to get his alcohol fix. Was he to be pitied? Perhaps. But her heart had hardened over the years. Everyone whom she might’ve trusted had betrayed and left her over the course of her life – including her family. That was why she refrained from making any friends or lovers. What was the point?

“That’s an interesting…work of body art,” said a voice beside her, interrupting her thoughts. Laurel turned round to see an asari, sipping on a blue cocktail.

“Which one?” Laurel replied.

“The one spread across your back. I do find humans with body art very stimulating.”

“If that’s a chat-up line, sorry not interested.” The asari, offended, walked away quickly. Marik suddenly chuckled from behind her.

“Is that how you talk to everyone, huma - Laura?” he corrected himself when she turned to stare at him.

“I’m not going to justify that question with an answer,” she said, looking across at the throng of people socialising and gambling. Marik’s gaze was still on her.

“Any reason why you’re so…cold?” he said to her.

“You’re one to talk,” she snapped. He looked at her, dumbfounded at the human phrase.

“It means someone criticising another for doing what they do themselves,” she finished.

“Touché,” he said.

Laurel quickly grew bored, telling him she was going to walk around the area. She was seriously pissed off that he wanted to use this hour to get drunk. He was supposed to win this – how would he if he was inebriated beyond concentration? Instinct told her that something was going to go tits up. She managed to waste half an hour, but was not the mingling type, batting off anyone who tried to talk to her. She found as she walked back to the bar Marik had been watching her.

“That your fifth drink, yet?” she chided him, settling her back against the bar, her elbows on its surface. He ignored her, checking his omni-tool briefly.

“Banks has transferred the five thousand,” he said in a monotone.

“That’s the buy-in fee?”

“High stakes, no limit. Aria has transferred enough so we can beat Scott at his own game.” Laurel stared at his face for a moment. This was a ridiculous game in a ridiculous world.

“And if you lose? I can’t imagine the oh-so resilient turian such as yourself having a penchant for gambling,” she said drily, still studying his features.

His small yellow eyes coldly analysed her. He looked like he was about to retort, but thought the better of it. She had to admit despite her loathing for him the rebelliousness she was displaying was oddly enticing. If not somewhat dangerous. Perhaps it was because the turians were so regimented in their habits, that she couldn’t help but wonder what it’d be like to tip him over the edge. It was hard to deny that she wanted to, because of all the built up anger in her that hadn’t been expelled for years. Half an hour later, an announcement declared the beginning of the game. Marik had gone over with his whiskey, not saying another word to her. Laurel lingered at the bar, which wasn’t far from the large table, granting her a clear view. She was surprised that this round of quasar was being played with traditional cards, probably due to its organiser being human.  
  
Laurel watched the total six players approach the table; another asari and two humans joined a single salarian and krogan. The dealer was an asari. She decided to get a drink herself. The vodka tonic slipped down her throat very nicely, as she turned round to watch them. Marik even sat in his seat seemed to dwarf them all. Her eyes drifted to the battle-scarred male krogan who was quite unfortunately sat next to the salarian who was half his size. The lights seemed to have dimmed, and a small crowd gathered to watch the table, drinks in their hands. A smartly dressed man, a player, stood up and thanked the crowds with a piercingly white smile. He was the one who had made the announcement.

He was also the man who had been her superior in the Alliance. He was the one who had betrayed her.

* * *

 


	20. Chapter 20

_That total fucker_.

Laurel couldn’t believe her bad luck – as of late, the past had seemed to relentlessly bombard her with its ghosts. She stood there still, watching his figure at the table. He wore a white suit, and his hair was combed back. He’d aged badly. There were wrinkles and cracks and crevices in his skin, surprising for a man who made a living out of being a crook. His attire had plenty to show for it though – tailor made, crisp, well cut and she spotted several glints of gold on his fingers. He probably wouldn’t recognise her – though she didn’t yet count all her chickens before they hatched. She’d been told in the past that her eyes and hair made her quite recognisable, much to her bafflement. Her eyes were a plain steel-grey and her hair was a bird’s nest – nothing out of the ordinary. Laurel tried to maintain a calm posture, walking back to the bar.

“Give me the strongest thing you have,” she announced to the bartender.

The asari rose what would’ve been an eyebrow, but said nothing. Laurel turned back with her drink in her hands as she watched the game commence. Obviously Scott was a cover name – especially as an ex-Alliance solider, now turned criminal. His real name was Stefan Jensen and he’d been her commanding officer when they were sent to disarm a nuclear bomb eleven years ago now. She remembered him clearly – self-assured, handsome and perceptive. Yet he was also cunning and a wicked liar.

Eleven years ago there had been four of them – her tasked with providing the expertise on bomb disposal. Despite her shortcomings as a solider in the Alliance, she’d become extremely proficient at this skill of disarmament. The First Contact War was drawing to a close as Alliance superiors suggested, yet many humans were not convinced of this fact. The probe had been sent into turian space, initially in the hope it would do some serious damage. She squeezed her glass as she gazed at Jensen, who sat poised in his chair. The light caught on his brown, smooth hair as she watched him carefully, eyeing up his cards. She wasn’t paying attention to how well Marik was doing, and decided she didn’t care. Even if Aria didn’t give her what she promised, she wasn’t interested either. 

She made the mistake of sleeping with Jensen once. Both of them had been drunk, both of them hadn’t been in the Alliance for that long (he was four years older than her) and both were terribly lonely. According to him afterwards, she’d been a lousy lay and proceeded to joke with every other soldier about it for the next month after that. It had happened to her before and she felt unfazed by it. She could’ve retaliated a lot harder but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. After that, they never spoke to one another properly after that. Laurel began to feel slightly light-headed, knowing the alcohol of that strong drink had set in. Good – Dutch courage was what she needed at this point.

“Human?” snapped a voice, probably Marik’s.

Her eyes were hooked on Jensen, as he leaned in towards another man, whispering something. The man walked off, joined by another as he proceeded towards the back of the room.

“Are you not paying attention?” snapped Marik.

“You won yet?” she said. Marik was not amused.

“Hour break. I’m not even close to winning yet,” he growled, signalling the bartender for another. “He’s leading, but I’m not far behind.”

“I’m happy for you,” she said, scarcely taking notice of what he said. Her mind was full of Jensen. “I need to go pee.”

Marik barely knew what she meant, but could only guess. She smiled at a few passing people, greeting a few asari, putting on a show before heading towards the back where Jensen’s men had disappeared. It looked like some sort of emergency exit with its bare concrete walls and emergency lights. It was miraculous an alarm hadn’t sounded when she opened the door. Laurel pulled out her pistol eyeing down the stairwell. The place was barely lit, as she held the weapon out in front of her, briefly giving upstairs a look. She took two flights down, hearing a whirring generator when she reached the bottom, but then she was suddenly plunged into blackness.

Her heart was in her mouth at this point. A small part of her regretted coming down this far – did she really want to make herself look conspicuous? She activated the light on her pistol, but before Laurel could see what was in front of her, she was unexpectedly thumped into a cold, concrete wall behind. A hand seized her wrist and bashed it hard against the wall. The pistol was tossed out of her hand. Two bright lights were shone into her face once the perpetrator had her immobilised against the wall, hands on both her bare shoulders.

“Laurel Westfahl,” he spat her name. “I thought I recognised you the moment you walked in with that turian.”

“What can I say, I must be a sight for sore eyes,” she quipped.

Jensen let go of one shoulder and pressed the cold barrel of his gun to her forehead. She saw two of his men shining lights into her face from their assault rifles.

“Are you working for Aria T’Loak?” he said to her.

“Go to hell,” she taunted.

“Each kneecap,” was all he said, signalling to his men behind, who pointed their guns at her legs.

“Why don’t you just end my pathetic life, Stefan?” she said to him, staring at his pale eyes. “You fucked it up.”

His eyes drifted away from hers in thought. He then pulled away from her shoulder, but still held his pistol at her.

“Was a long time ago, Laurel,” he sighed.

“Bullshit!” she cried at him. “It was _you_ who hacked the controls, _you_ who stopped me from disarming the bomb. You wanted it to kill that turian fleet.”

“No it was you who failed to disarm it properly. You _never_ should’ve been picked for the mission,” he said through gritted teeth.

He looked like he could barely control himself. Sweat dribbled down his temple and his once immaculate hair had now come loose, falling into his eyes.

“That’s what you said to the Alliance,” she said, her voice becoming higher. Jensen signalled his men away, who retreated back up the stairs. “I knew it was you who had the turian supply line cut at the last minute – even though we were on the verge of a stalemate.”

There a brief silence as he regarded her.

“You know they tortured me,” he said to her, rising fury in his voice. Fear made her jaw clench, her blood pounding away underneath her. “I saw them kill many innocent residents on Shanxi. They attacked us for no reason – we were breaking their pathetic rules. How were we to know…?”

“You set me up - you _lied_ , you son of a bitch. You’re lying now! They never tortured you. They tortured me because of you! Your setup on Shanxi was pretty good I have to admit – striking my head hard enough so I couldn’t remember a thing. Leaving me in a bombed-out building. Killing the rest of the squad, making it look like the turians did it….” she hissed with barely contained rage, her nose wrinkling.

He ignored her, pale eyes sharp as he still spoke.

“Yet here you are now…. working with a turian…. Or are you sleeping with him? Wouldn’t be below you, Laurel. You were always a whore and everyone knew it,” he said.

Laurel suddenly hit him across the face, as hard as she could, making him stumble back. She stared at him as he turned away, wondering if he was going to retaliate, but much harder. To her shock, he began laughing, twisting back to face her. Enraged, she attempted to hit him harder this time, but he caught her arm.

“Is that why you decided to blame it on me?” she said, her breath caught in her throat.

“You were just in the wrong place, at the wrong time,” he said to her. He put his pistol away back in the inside of his suit jacket, smirking at her. “Don’t take it personally, Laurel. You weren't that special.” She studied him unblinkingly before answering.

“Neither were you,” she told him. He only laughed again, turning away towards the stairs.

“Next break, you come here to tell me what I want to hear or I have both you and your alien boyfriend killed.”

“Do what you like,” she said to him, her voice now shaking. “I've no real stake in this.”

He ignored her and disappeared. Laurel continued to stand there in shock before pulling herself together. She walked quickly to the nearest bathroom, hoping there wasn’t a queue or crowd inside. The bathroom was probably the most elegant and ridiculously overdone she’d seen. The mirrors were gold adorned and lit, while each cubicle was large enough to fit a double bed. She was thankful anyway – amongst the padded seating, the fragrance, and the toiletries (?) there was a mirror. She combed her hair with her hands, finding a lipstick in her clutch and reapplied.

She saw her exposed ankles and the tops of her feet had become dirty – probably from the scuffle downstairs – and dunked her feet in the toilet bowl to wash it off. When satisfied she washed her hands in the sink, casting a brief fake smile towards a woman who was doing her hair on her left. Her face was pale as she caught her appearance in the bright mirror. What was her stake in this? She had her ride. Laurel tried to formulate a way to escape from the casino. Fuck her belongings back on the ship. When she exited, Marik broke away from a nearby conversation and strolled right up towards her.

“What the hell have you been?” he hissed. “Two of Scott’s men have been watching me without breaking their gaze.”

“To powder my nose,” she drawled at him, heading back to the bar.

 _Damn him to hell,_ she thought _. I need to get out of here as fast as I can. Screw him and Jensen._ Marik barely blinked at her reply, marching to catch up with her quick gait towards the bar.

“Don’t lie to me,” he persisted. “What happened?”

“Come off it, Marik,” she barked. He stopped her before she could reach the bar.

“I smell fear on you,” he said.

She nearly raised an eyebrow, but then remembered he was a strange alien whom she’d had no idea about. The last eleven years she kept well away from reading much about the known alien races. She wasn’t a xenophile in the slightest.

“I’ve been afraid for a long time,” she said.

“This is recent,” he said back. “There are grazes on your upper back and your right hand. It looks like someone has attacked you.”

She bit her lip, thinking quickly.

“Some drunk bozos out the back,” she said. “I thought I’d walked into the bathroom. Guess I’ve had a lot more to drink than I thought.”

She met his small, piercing eyes, which were chillingly unblinking.

“Every word that’s come out of your mouth has been a lie, I know it,” he told her. Laurel was close to loosing her temper then.

“What’s there to lie about? Surely you don’t think I’m here for-”

“You know Scott, don’t you,” said Marik, his voice now lower so others couldn’t hear.

His somewhat predatory posture and stare might’ve made her baulk previously but after her scuffle with Jensen she was nothing more than irate. Laurel stood there, contemplating what to say. For once she didn’t feel utter loathing for him, for she knew who the real asshole was in all this. She straightened up suddenly, meeting his eyes.

“I knew him in the Alliance,” she replied. Marik, if it was possible, briefly looked shocked.

“We need to find somewhere quieter to discuss this,” he eventually replied.

“There is nothing to discuss,” Laurel snapped. “We’re not in the Alliance anymore.” With that she turned from him quickly, moving back towards the bar.


	21. Chapter 21

It took a second trip to the bathroom, with Marik’s eyes on her back. It wasn’t in her interest that he didn’t trust her. But who in this miserable life ever trusted one another? She waited until the game commenced again, seeing that the table was already two players down, before heading to wash her grazes. It was unfortunate she’d been wearing something that revealed her upper back. She was glad for a mirror in the lavishly large toilet stalls, pressing wet toilet tissue into her upper back. There was no use hiding it, despite the large tattoo displayed across her upper back. Laurel then returned to the bar to watch the game. She saw that Jensen looked unruffled by their encounter, but his eyes were unfalteringly fixed on Marik.  
  
It was then Laurel realised that whatever the outcome, they had been found out by Jensen the moment they walked in. It was to be unanticipated, but she found herself drumming her fingers on the bar’s surface with her mind ticking away. She wasn’t sure how much Marik or Jensen had in the pot, but she was willing to bet that it was Jensen who had the upper hand. If she could tell anything about Marik, other than he was cranky, xenophobic _and_ an alcoholic, then she was definitely unsure about his gambling skills. Quasar, much like the human blackjack, required certain technique and thought.  
  
Her mind ticked away as she sat there, drinking a vodka tonic. There was no easy way that Jensen could force them to where she’d been confronted beforehand. Did he think she was stupid? She watched Marik’s back, the suit of his formalwear moving with his large carapace – much like the shoulder blades would do of a human, but much subtler. These were two men whom she owed nothing to. Laurel turned her head to the entrance of the casino, guarded by a couple of turians. If they didn’t meet Jensen – surely he wouldn’t want an out-in-out gunfight in this casino? She wasn’t sure whose wrath was worse, but keeping Marik from her true identity was the number one goal on her list.   
  
During the second break Laurel spotted Dellria, who approached Marik. She cast a surreptitious glance over towards her. Her mind kept ticking. Marik, who seemed to have sobered up (miraculously, she thought), then approached her with a steady gaze. He didn’t say anything for several moments before muttering to her.

“One of her contacts says she saw you engage in a…disagreement in the emergency stairwell,” he said, his voice so low she could barely hear him.  
  
Laurel felt suddenly lost for words. _Who is the bigger enemy here_ , her mind thought. _Jensen. It’s Jensen. That bastard ruined your life._ She pretended to look uninterested, picking at the edges of skin around her nails. Marik in irritation cast a glance at her fiddling hands. The fingers, although upon first glance seemed normal, reminded him of something. He brushed it away as he spoke again.

“Laura – I need to you to be frank with me,” he said sternly.  
  
She shuddered at his tone. It was the first time he had used her name without condescension – despite it not being hers.

“I’m endangering the mission,” she replied, her tone level. Marik’s large mandibles tightened in response.

“As far as Aria’s concerned, you’re taking Hobbs’s place,” he replied after a brief silence. “Surely as a resident of Omega you know better than to anger Aria. It sounds like this is a paltry excuse for backing out. Once this is over you can leave.”

“You don’t understand,” she snapped, clutching her glass tightly.  
  
She wanted to break it, feel the glass pierce the palm of her hand. Marik swivelled round to properly face her.

“Well _make_ me understand, human,” he said in a low tone, which sounded too much like a snarl for her liking.

“I need to speak to Scott. If you let me speak to him, then the mission won’t be endangered,” she pleaded suddenly.  
  
Marik’s ochre-eyed stare bored straight into her. He was an alcoholic, he was a mercenary, but she could tell that he hadn’t lost his unnerving perceptiveness since his days as a military general.

“You’ll do no such thing. I don’t care what history you have with him, it’s irrelevant here.”  
  
She began to grow angry, feeling like he was scolding her as you would with a child.

“It’s far from irrelevant,” she barked at him. “If it were then I wouldn’t be wasting my breath telling you.”  
  
Laurel made to move away from the bar, hoping to catch Jensen. As soon as she did, Marik seized her forearm roughly. Snapping her head to look at him, the yellow in his eyes ever so familiar, something in her finally wilted.

What she knew about the turians was that they evolved as a predatory species that did not develop the use of spears when naturally they had their talons. Those talons would probably have no difficulty breaking an arm. She returned to her seat instead with old fear in her heart. How could she make him understand without betraying her true identity? Laurel was already becoming used to the fact that he did not remember her and that suited her just fine. Her imagination wasn’t equipped enough to envisage his reaction when he did remember.

In the end, Marik stood back up and walked back to the table. She’d lost her chance to either warn him or try to find Jensen. Ten minutes into the third quarter, he already had the upper hand. She didn’t ask him how much was now in the pot – but the players round the table were becoming few and far between. The third break her head began to reel from one too many drinks – although she would’ve considered that to be incredibly 'light-weighted' if she were still in her twenties. She was thirty-five and more adult than she thought to be. Dellria approached her from behind, out of the blue.

“Who are you really?” she began, abrupt.

“Excuse me?” said Laurel, not turning around.

“Don’t be coy,” said Dellria, her eyes narrowing into purple slits. “I know it’s not your choice to be in this position, but is it worth getting yourself, Marik and I in danger? Or face the wrath of Aria?”  
  
Laurel ignored her and reached back towards her glass, taking a long slip. Her eyes were on Jensen. Dellria didn’t take this small act of rudeness kindly, reaching to pull Laurel’s free arm back at a painful angle. From the outside, it looked like a warm, if somewhat romantic embrace. Her drink sloshed over the pants of her jumpsuit and she cursed loudly.

“I don’t trust either of you,” spat Laurel. Dellria responded by letting her arm go, miraculously. This was only because Marik was walking back towards them.

“Is this the last break?” asked Laurel. Marik nodded. Dellria came round from behind Laurel.

“Drink, Absedeus?” she said to him. He muttered an imperceptible yes. A minute later when he slugged his whiskey down two of Jensen’s bodyguards approached them. Dellria was back behind the bar.

“Can I _help_ you, gentlemen?” snarled Marik, sarcasm evident in his tone.  
  
The men, both dressed in tuxedos looked towards Laurel as well, whose heart nearly missed a bit.

“Follow us sir, please,” began one bodyguard, taking Marik’s arm lightly.  
  
Marik, who knew better than to protest, reluctantly got up. He sent Laurel a quick glance before they were turned away towards a door at the back of the casino.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mini warning: Some nasty violence in this chapter. This story isn't all doom and gloom I swear :3 PROMISE

 This time the ‘meeting’ was not hidden away in a dark, emergency stairwell. When the doors closed behind them, both Marik and Laurel felt the barrel of a gun press into their backs. They were instructed by the bodyguards to move down the step, two flights down this time, to where Stefan Jensen was stood waiting. The dim light shone off his gelled hair. Before anyone could speak, the bodyguards hit Marik and Laurel simultaneously in the back of the head with the butt of their rifles. Laurel fell to the ground, her head spinning – Marik continued to stand.

“Who are you, really?” began Marik. Jensen wasn’t in the mood for formalities, it seemed.

“I’ll be asking the questions, if you don’t mind, turian,” began Jensen. “Your girlfriend has obviously not told you her true identity. Otherwise you’d be privy to more knowledge about this situation.”

Laurel had managed to stand back up, pushing the man behind away roughly. She thought Marik would look at her. Instead he kept his gaze firmly on the man in front, saying nothing. Not anticipating their silence, Jensen’s expression darkened.

“Alright, I’ll give you a choice,” he said. “Either you walk away and tell Aria to stick it up the ass…. Or you work for me. It was your girlfriend who gave it away, in case you didn’t know,” he then addressed Marik. “We used to know each other in the Alliance, did you know that?” Laurel, by this point, couldn’t help but interrupt.

“For Christ’s sake, Stefan, you don’t know who you’re dealing with,” she began.

“Do you think I’m that _stupid_? That I wouldn’t find out that some asari slut would have connections with the Blue Suns? Then you, Laurel, decide to walk in with some turian…I only could put two and two together. After all, it isn’t surprising that some disgraced general and a drug dealer would end up working for the _Blue Suns_ …”

“I do think you’re stupid,” said Marik, his deep voice calm. He towered over Jensen by several inches, although Jensen didn’t appear fazed. “Stupid enough to steal from Aria. And then hold a high-stakes quasar game in Nos Astra, of all places. Or, to add insult to injury, invest in an illicit project that was ultimately razed by the STG.”

Jensen’s face looked imperceptible for a moment – his face creased and flattened with pure fury.

“I’m well aware you’re capable of beating me at my own game,” he finally replied.

“It would be easier if you let me do so,” said Marik, unwavering. Jensen smiled, his small white teeth showing even in the darkness of the stairwell.

“I don’t think so. Shame I lied about giving you a choice.” Both bodyguards, who had the fortune of being brawly, suddenly shoved Marik to the ground. Before he could get back up, the men beat him brutishly until he could no longer rise. Laurel stood still, averting her eyes, flinching as she heard skin upon skin and the butt of the rifles pounding into flesh. She pressed her nails into her palms until she felt pain. What disturbed her more than anything was Marik’s silence, apart from his now heavy, laboured breathing. On the pale concrete below them, blue blood was splattered like a Jackson Pollock painting. Jensen moved closer towards her.

“Not one word of protest? How cold,” he laughed.

“Do what you want, Jensen. I've no real stake in this,” she lied. He chuckled again.

“You surprise me, Laurel. I thought maybe you’d kept that noble part instilled by the Alliance.”

“No, I made sure that was eradicated,” she said.

Jensen seemed more than just smug at the moment. Unsheathing a sidearm he walked over to Marik who was half kneeling on the ground now – trying to retain some of his dignity – and promptly shot him in the upper thigh. This time Marik let out a half-gurgled shout, propelled backwards by the pain. A scuffle ensued. As Marik leapt towards Jensen, the bodyguards moved to intercept him. One of Marik’s talons wrapped around Jensen’s right forearm, moving to possibly wrench it out of its socket. Before he could do so, the bodyguards threw him back down on the floor. Barely shaken, Jensen walked confidently towards Marik who remained silent. Laurel could see Marik’s large carapace heaving slowly. Jensen stuck the heel of his shoe into the bleeding wound in Marik’s thigh. She had trouble hearing his shriek of pain – maybe her ears did not pick up on such turian sub-vocals. Perhaps he was silent. With his heel dug into Marik’s thigh, Jensen then trained his gun on Laurel; pointed directly in the middle of her forehead.

“Wanna know _who_ your partner in crime is, turian?” he said, although he was looking at Laurel. Her jaw set, blood turning to ice.

“The soldier who betrayed her own. Who instead of disarming the bomb, made sure it was rigged to go off…Barely escaped with her own life and mine. Killed everyone else on the mission…” She made a move to step closer, but he fired a shot inches away from her head, making her ears ring. It was an uncannily good shot.

“Dismissed from the Alliance. Spent the last eight years in prison…Got out on parole. What was it again? Murder - of two Alliance soldiers - and mutiny, failure to obey, insubordinate conduct…there’s another but I’ve forgotten it now…”

“How nice of you to remember. Considering you-” she began. He cut her off by firing another shot by the other side of her head. This time she shrieked as she felt the hot slug nearly brush her cheek.

“I might not so carefully miss next time, Westfahl,” he smirked, pleased that he could get such a reaction out of her.

“You’re not playing a fair game, human,” spat Marik from below.

Jensen, briefly distracted by Marik, gave Laurel all the time she needed. It was a lucky shot, but the knife she pulled out from an inside holster underneath her jumpsuit was all she had. The knife landed in one of the bodyguards’ chest, stunning him. Marik, using what little strength he had left, dragged Jensen to the ground. A wrestle between the two ensued, but it was clear the turian was the stronger. Pinning Jensen underneath him, Marik attempted to reach for his gun that Jensen held desperately above his head. The other bodyguard tackled Laurel, who’d dodged his first attack. She then dealt him a blow to the solar plexus and then groin. Mostly undeterred, the bodyguard grabbed her by the throat and threw her with unsurprising force at the wall. Landing awkwardly, she hadn’t time to rise before he booted her hard in the face. Something clicked as she felt the white hot pain ricochet up to her skull and back. Pretending to struggle against the pain on the ground, she unsheathed her other knife somewhat shakily.

“Fucking _help_ me, Marino!” she heard Jensen shout.

As he turned away, confident he’d outdone the woman, she swiftly slashed the backs of his heels, severing the Achilles tendons. He screamed in agony and fell, allowing her another chance. Pelting upwards she saw that Jensen and Marik still continued to struggle against each other. She kicked the gun away, trying to pull Marik upwards.

“Why're you helpin' him? What’s he to _you_?” Jensen snarled through the blood in his mouth. With the heel of her shoe she kicked him across the face, hard enough that he became silent, probably unconscious. Marino the bodyguard was still crying with pain.

“Come on,” Laurel mumbled. “We need to get out of here.”

Marik said nothing, refused her arm for leaning on and walked down the next flight of stairs without a word. He followed her hurriedly. She could feel warm blood all over her face, and could hear his heavy breathing. She wasn’t sure if Marino had broken her nose or not. It took them four flights of stairs before she could see a blue fire-exit sign, opening it and letting Marik exit first. They were thankfully on a lower level of the city - a quieter area as well. She wiped her nose on the back of her hand.

“Shit, my purse. I left it back…. have you any…?” She couldn’t finish the last of her sentence as she looked at him. He was analysing her.

“You need to leave by yourself _now_ , human,” he spat. It sounded as if he could barely control his hatred. His stance, despite being wounded, seemed taller and broader.

“All my things are on your ship,” she said, faltering. It was unbelievable how things had taken a turn for the worse.

“I don’t care. _You_ \- need to leave _now_. Otherwise you’ll feel the ire of either myself, Jensen or Aria. It is not likely we will be considerate of what your excuses are.” In all their haste and scuffle, she nearly forgot that Marik was her once captor – that he now knew the truth about her. Probably remembered her.

“What Jensen said about me was wrong,” said Laurel.

“Poor choice of words,” snapped Marik. He brought up his arm, tapping it urgently.

“Twenty credits to get you a cab and perhaps a cloth to wipe that blood off your face. There’s one now. Get outta my sight.” She did indeed turn to see a cab draw up expecting customers, despite the fact that they hadn’t waved it down.

“What’re you going to do?” she asked. _What the hell?_ Her mind retorted. _You’re stalling?_ _It’s the time to get away!_

“Explain the catastrophic urgency of our situation to Banks and then Aria,” he said waspishly. “I don’t know - I haven’t got _that_ far. Why are you stalling me, human? It’s taking a lot of restraint not to crush your wretched head into the ground.” She fully believed that he would, if he wanted to.

“Why are you allowing me to get away?” she said, ignoring his question. 

“I don’t want to have to think about you,” he said, walking right up to her. “I don’t want anything to do with you. You are despicable, a disgrace to your species.”

“I want redemption,” she said, her voice breaking for the first time. But he wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t understand the pain in her frown, the torment in her watery eyes and the anger in the fine lines around her mouth.

“You will not have it,” he said. “I fantasised for a time what the Hierarchy would do to you if you were a turian-”

“Well I’m not,” she retorted. Laurel suddenly spotted his blood, a dark navy, run down his long leg onto the ground. There was a lot of it.

“You need a doctor,” she said.

He was about to retort something snarky when the door of the fire exit banged open so hard it slammed against the outside wall. Laurel instantly saw Jensen’s furious face, hell bent on punishing this act of rebellion from her. She regretted not picking that damn gun up, or retrieving her knives. When did she get so sloppy? Just as she had done to one of his bodyguards, Jensen catapulted the knife towards her face. She held her hand up in defence. The knife pierced straight through the back of her hand, propelling her backwards as she shrieked out from the pain. The cab driver miraculously was still waiting. Jensen attempted to push Marik over the edge of the street, which lead straight down forty thousand feet to the planet’s hot surface. Laurel had jumped into the back of the cab.

“Come on!” she yelled at Marik. Marik, who looked like he was losing the upper hand, lifted Jensen suddenly into the air. He threw the man down with what looked like the last of his strength and limped painfully over to the cab. The driver sped off immediately.

“I’ll make a guess. The hospital?” said the driver, a salarian, spoken somewhat irreverently.

“Yeah-” began Laurel, trying to staunch the bleeding with her other hand. There was too much of it. She had no cloth.

“No,” growled Marik. “Futura Inn.”

“ _What?_ I hope there’s a goddamn doctor there,” she snapped.

“There will be,” replied Marik, his eyes set straight away. Sensing Laurel’s confusion, he continued.

“I was initially trained as a surgeon,” he said.

“Wow, some night, huh?” said the salarian.

“I’ll pay double for you to keep your mouth shut,” growled Marik.

“Excellent idea,” was the salarian’s reply.


	23. Chapter 23

Futura Inn was hidden away in a quiet part of the city, right on the outskirts. Marik must’ve been acquainted with the city before, as he looked like he knew the Inn well. It reminded Laurel of something she’d only read in literature – a dark, seedy bar lit by amber lighting. A battle-scarred krogan sat at the bar looking down his pint, served by a shifty-looking salarian. She didn’t see one human or asari for that matter. They didn’t pay outright attention to the pair as they walked in, bleeding, bruised and ruffled. The Inn’s desk happened to be at the bar.

“Marik,” greeted the salarian, his eyes as black as the night sky. He was hand-cleaning his tumblers, which Laurel thought strange. Usually they were all bunged into a machine. She saw his right hand was evidently robotic, stripped of anything to conceal the mechanics.

“One room. Two nights max,” said Marik.

“No, we want two rooms if possible,” interrupted Laurel. The salarian gave her a stony glance.

“One,” he replied, taking a key-card off the rack behind him and pushing it towards them on the surface of the bar.

“Come back for payment once you’ve stopped dripping blood all over my floor,” said the salarian. Before they could get away completely, he continued talking at their backs.

“And keep your pet human in tow, Marik.”

Flushed with sudden humiliation, Laurel snatched the key card off Marik and headed upstairs, without taking the elevator. Room twenty-three wasn’t very impressive with one double bed, a kitchenette and a bathroom barely big enough to wash in. The lights, like in the bar, were amber, casting a somewhat cosy if not moody glow over the room. The adrenaline wearing off, Laurel began to feel the deep wound in her hand. The blood had ran all the way down her arm, creating a somewhat morbid pattern on her arm from where it had now dried and resulted in cracking. She needed a warm shower and a hot drink more than anything. The knife was still embedded in her hand – according to Marik she should not remove it.

Not yet – but as she sat in the bathroom trembling, the prospect of pulling it out was becoming harder to accept. Laurel had left the door open for him, and now she heard it slam. His figure slowly came into view, seeing her gazing at the knife in her hand. She finally met eyes with him in the mirror, still trembling. How would she feel safe sleeping in this room with him? He had a medical kit in his talons and he moved into the tiny bathroom, under the bright light, throwing his evident alien features into full view. Last time she’d seen him up this close in bright light was eleven years ago before her life was ruined. Would he believe her? It was clear he did not want to engage in conversation, and took her hand roughly.

“Please, don’t,” she murmured, quivering at his close contact.

He ignored her, forced her hand into the sink and swiftly pulled the knife out. Her mouth opened but nothing came out. There wasn’t enough voice left in her to scream with agony. 

“Gonna puke,” she croaked.

“I can only presume what you mean,” he snapped. He wrenched her hand upward and squeezed hard on the wound.

“Why must you be so rough,” she snapped back.

“I’m amazed how you were a solider. You can barely cope a small wound,” he sneered at her. She was about to retort but then abruptly vomited into the sink. When she was finished, she realised that Marik was still holding her hand, now at an awkward angle above her head.

“I’m amazed you’re still standing,” she finally breathed.

“Keep your hand elevated and finish your vomiting in the bowl, human. The smell is rather nauseating.” Marik let go of her hand, and walked out of the room. She fell onto the floor, her vision spotting and her hearing ringing.

When she woke again, she was still sprawled on the ground, but her hand was elevated, propped against the metallic wall of the bathroom. Rising slowly, she kicked off her heels, seeing Marik tending to his wound. She saw the clock on the wall announcing it was two o’clock in the morning.

“Sterile solution in the bag. Wash your wound with it and clean out any dirt,” he ordered her. He was expertly wrapping what looked like a bandage round his upper thigh – the bandage was slimmer and more transparent than a human bandage.

“You have lost a lot of blood,” she said, watching him carefully.

“Who's the doctor here?” he said, his voice quiet. “Do as I say.” She knew better than to argue with him, imagining not many had dared to disagree with him in his lifetime. Washing the wound with the half used solution, over the sink, tears of pain slipped down her dirty cheeks. She pulled out a bandage, and wrapped it round her hand, not bearing to look at the sight of the wound for much longer.

“Why are you still here?” she asked him, her voice quivering. It seemed like her heart and mind were ready to crumble completely after so long. He stepped behind her and suddenly pulled her bandages off, unsatisfied with her wrapping.

“Why is your skin still gaping open, human?” he said, inspecting her hand like it was a dead cat. She then forcefully pulled her hand away, despite the pain. Anger seemed to make the pain powerful, almost pleasurable.

“ _Stop_ calling me human,” she spat through gritted teeth. “I don’t know what your skin does, but mine takes a long time to heal.” He narrowed his eyes at her.

“How long?”

“About ten days. Depends on the wound. How do you not know this for a doctor?” He ignored her question and took her hand back, despite her overwhelming urge to hit him with said wounded hand.

“Treatment?” he said.

“Stitches,” she said. Marik stood there for a moment, analysing the wound.

“I’ll get Gaer to fetch us some supplies. We have to lay low for a while,” he said. She felt it was the nicest thing he’d ever said to her.

“Gaer?” she asked, looking up at him.

“The barman and the innkeeper,” was his reply.

“He looked shifty, and he was damn well rude,” she said. His mandibles softened in slight, unexpected amusement but he turned away to hide this barely perceptible expression.

“I trust him more than anyone. He has to maintain a, uh, certain image.” He re-wrapped her bandage as they both sat on the bed in silence. His gloved talons brushed delicately against her skin as he tightly wound the white bandage round her hand. Laurel looked at his own bandage, which had now bled through – like ink on paper.

“Stop trembling. I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, more softly now. So close was his voice she couldn’t help but wince.

“You don’t know that. You might. Revenge is so bittersweet,” Laurel whispered. Marik said nothing, but finished the bandage by tying it so tightly she couldn’t feel her fingers.


	24. Chapter 24

Laurel woke up several hours later, having fallen asleep on the surprisingly comfy bed. Marik was nowhere to be seen. The pain in her hand had subsided slightly, but she was left instead with an intense throbbing – probably the worse of the two. Something in particular was bothering her, as she lay on her back staring at the smoke-stained ceiling. All her worldly possessions were still on the ship. Both of them now probably appeared as traitors to Aria. Laurel doubted she’d see those possessions again. After having lived on Omega for a year, she knew that such material things were meaningless and if you weren’t careful anything of value made you a potential target for thieves. The silver framed photograph of the osprey was a sentimental artefact, but to her it was precious. She remembered each line and colour, the texture of the photo and frame. Warm tears slipped out of her eyes as she remembered the circumstances that captured the photograph. It was at that moment Marik returned, cautious in opening and closing the door. He thought she was asleep – and she was mortified he'd walked in on this moment. She nearly hiccupped from her silent crying, for the tightly held air in her lungs was ready to burst out.

“You are awake?” he said, as soft as he could.  
  
She licked her lips, tasting salt. Laurel didn’t turn to see what he had in his hands, but could hear him plonking it all down on the table by the small kitchenette. She brushed her cheeks with the back of her good hand and sat up, hoping he hadn’t seen. She banked on his lack of knowledge about human anatomy.

“I have food to last for two days. And something to, um…repair your hand with,” Marik said to her with his back turned. Laurel frowned, watching him. Was he _aware_ of her misery? She sat patiently on the bed. He walked over to her, his gaze stern.

“How long were you asleep for? The dressing has soaked through. You needed to keep your hand elevated slightly,” he reprimanded, sitting beside her. He was a little too close for her liking, she could smell his distinctly alien scent – not altogether repugnant, but not exactly _Hugo Boss_  either.

“I don’t know. How long were you out for? It’s six am,” she replied. She saw he had a much sterner dressing on his leg. Clearly she was the weaker species.

“I needed to operate on my leg. And fetch you supplies, with the help of Gaer of course,” he said, taking her hand and unwrapping her bandage.

“I didn’t know you were a doctor,” she whispered, watching his talons. It hadn’t escaped her attention that she’d always seen turians with their talons covered, and probably for good reason.

“I started my military career as a medic and later trained as a surgeon,” he answered.

“How’d you end up as a general?” she asked him.

“Enough questions, human,” he snapped. He took out transparent thread and a needle when he was finished cleaning her wound with saline solution.

“You need to thread this for me – and I will try my best to stitch your skin back together.” His command made her skin crawl – she’d always had trouble with authority. She could see why he rose to such a prominent position in the military – there was no refusing him.

“No…no analgesic?” she said. His look seemed to darken, the brow forming what looked like a frown.

“For a little stab wound?” he mocked her. Laurel felt the urge to hit him hard.

“Fuck you,” she barely whispered. He leaned forward as if he didn’t hear her properly, in a pose that was clearly derisive.

“What was that, human?”

“FUCK YOU!” she yelled, having lost it finally.

She jumped up as she said it and kicked the medical box that was on the floor across the room. Bringing her hands together she elbowed him as hard as she could in the face, hearing a sickening smack as she did so. He fell to the floor with a groan but quickly recovered, bringing a leg round to kick her off her feet. She landed with a thud two seconds later, grunting and heaving as she struggled to stand back up. He rose up, spitting blood onto the dirty carpet, facing her head on. Laurel hovered from foot to foot, deciding which way was the best to tackle him. She did not want to be here anymore – she had to get out. Tackling him head-on would probably be one of the poorer choices, but she had speed and agility on her side.

“Come on, human, what is your next move now?” he jostled her.

“Putting a fucking bullet in your brain,” she hissed.

“What atrocious language. I thought the Alliance military would’ve ground that out of you,” he sneered.

“You forget I’m the Alliance traitor,” she replied.

She took the lamp on the bedside table and flung it at him as hard as she could. He brought up an arm reflexively, the lamp smashing as it collided with him. Laurel then catapulted herself at him, hoping to stun him by thumping him into the wall behind. If he was stunned, she could make her escape. As they collided, he suddenly grabbed her loose hair and forearm, lifting her up and turning to slam her into the wall. Her head banged against a picture frame as she struggled to throw him off, her feet dangling in mid-air. She reached round to grab the frame, and shattered it into the top of his cowl, before he snatched the empty frame back off her and chucked it behind.

“Do not attempt to fight me any longer,” he hissed at her. His face was so close she had to turn her head away in repulse.

“I can’t bear your sarcasm and hatred anymore,” she spat.

“It’s clearly something else,” he said to her. He was pushing her harder into the wall, and her wounded hand was trapped between both their chests.

“Look at me!”

“You _tortured_ me,” she said, finally looking at his eyes. “I’d been betrayed by my own, and framed to make it look like I’d committed it. I was a bomb disposal expert. They sent me along with Jensen to disarm and dispose of it.” Her voice was now calm and lacked the previous anger. His grip softened a little, but he didn’t lower her back down to the ground.

“Please don’t say you don’t remember me,” she pleaded. Perhaps that was the worst insult. It was the first time she had seen his yellowy eyes properly close up – the pupils were black and small, almost indistinguishable against the yellow, but she could see different flecks of russet browns in the irises. Almost human.

“I remember you, Laurel Westfahl. It took Jensen’s utterance of what you did and your real name to trigger my memory properly. I can see now why I am so objectionable to you,” he replied, his eyes moving away from her in thought. He let her back down and abruptly turned away. She saw him walk over the shattered remains of the lamp, crunching it below his large feet.

“I get the impression you find humans ‘objectionable’,” she said. Her wound was throbbing more than ever after their fight and there was fresh blood all over her arm and hand.

“Don’t deduce anything about me,” he snapped. “But if you do, then you’re correct in assuming such a thing.” There was a silence between them for several minutes. Nothing but the hum of the refrigerator.

“Quite a commonplace practice in my culture,” he began, his back still turned to her. “Is the easing of stress, physical pain or rivalry between soldiers through sparring.”

Laurel was quick to answer.

“I don’t think that’d be a good idea. You’ve already proven who’s more efficient in hand-to-hand combat,” she said. He turned back round to face her.

“You are injured. Sparring is not just a test of strength, it is a test of skill,” Marik replied, ever vigilant.

“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” she sighed, tired from all of this now. The turian stepped towards her, his gaze steady.

“We both have grudges to unburden,” he said, more softly this time.

“It’s not the same for humans. What I see is a mental problem – not a physical one.”

Marik’s mandibles tightened – clearly her refusal had angered him.

“I do not wish to hear your sob story, _Westfahl,_ ” he snapped. “Now are you going to let me attend to your hand?” She gaped at him, wondering why he wanted to resume his doctorly duties after she just swore at and assaulted him.

“Why?” she tried him.

“I don’t. You need to hold a gun and shoot if we are ever going to make it off this planet alive,” was his reply. Laurel hadn’t noticed now that her body was still trembling from their scuffle, seeing pieces of broken glass scattered over the floor as she moved back towards the bed.

“I don’t want you touching me,” she said, moving to sit back on the bed. “I need to sleep. Maybe afterwards I can decide whether I want my hand stitched up by _you_.”

She turned round as she lay on the bed, away from him. Several minutes later after he cleaned up the mess, the door to the room opened and closed again. Laurel half hoped he would not return. _Half hoped_.


	25. Chapter 25

Laurel had a dream – a memory dream.

Some of it was embellished and most of it was a flashback, a sort of scene amongst many other scenes. Perhaps it was because she had spent a lot of time thinking about Marik, being in his presence. The fact that he admitted he did remember her was unnerving - although how well she was still unsure. He was clear as day, although the background and the faces of the guards had dimmed somewhat. Her upper arm had been broken in the collapse of a building on Shanxi. Her memory was hazy and she couldn’t remember why she was there, but the feelings of betrayal, hatred and guilt had remained.  
  
Alien faces had hauled her into a bombed-out police station, where some of it had survived. They asked her politely first, accusing her of killing three hundred of their turian soldiers. Perhaps trauma had blocked out what had happened to her or maybe the dream was embellishing the violence she had to live through. The alien in charge – tortured her as punishment, as a result of his thirst for revenge, anger and maybe his embarrassment. He would look bad to many of his superiors, as someone who did not do their job properly. She had been in the hospital for weeks afterwards when they finally recovered her. Broken upper arm. Several broken ribs. Three fingers on her right hand, four on her left. Fractured skull. Broken nose. Her skin was littered with grape coloured bruises, which gradually faded to various green colours. She’d seen her skeleton from x-rays more times than she cared to admit. She’d been in the hospital for a week without knowing it was inside a military prison.

 

* * *

 

She was murmuring and whimpering while she was sleeping. How _strange_. The room was cold and if he stayed any longer listening to her he’d do something he’d regret. Absedeus Marik removed himself from the room after cleaning up the mess that was on the floor. His joints ached from the last few days – hell, they always ached. He was no longer young and fit like he used to be. Gaer was setting up shop when he arrived in the main bar area, smelling the hint of a well-cooked turian breakfast. Gaer brought something through from the kitchen on a large plate and put it down on the bar surface with a knowing smile.

“Better than your usual choice,” he said. Marik nearly smiled himself.

“Don’t count on it,” he replied, sitting at the bar and picking up a pair of turian chopstick-like utensils to eat his food. “After last night I could do with a reynor.”

“Is that why you still have blood all over your face?” said Gaer, with a nod of his head.

“I washed it off…. Spirits above, I think she might’ve fractured something,” he groaned, pressing his talons gingerly against his face. He snatched Gaer’s washrag and smeared his blood on it.

“With what?” said Gaer, gingerly taking the rag back and throwing it into the incinerator behind him.

“Her elbow!” Marik began eating his breakfast in haste, hungrier than he realised. There was a brief silence as Gaer resumed his tasks, before turning back to Marik once he finished them.

“How long do you plan to stay here?” he asked, leaning his muscled forearms on the bar surface.

“I don’t know. I haven’t got that far yet,” answered Marik, his mouth full.

“What of _her_?” Gaer motioned his head towards the door. Marik pushed his plate away, having finished his breakfast.

“We’re having a hard time not pummelling each other into the ground at every spare moment.”

“Rat her out to Aria,” said Gaer. “After all, it’s her fault the entire thing cocked up. The longer you stay here with her, the more they’ll suspect you’re in it with her.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” replied Marik. “But it goes against everything that I as a turian believe in. What sense of honour have I abandoned?” Gaer looked rather taken-aback at this comment.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Gaer said. “You abandoned this ‘honour’ when you-”

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” snapped Marik, setting his hard gaze on Gaer finally. Gaer knew that pushing the turian’s temper was not a wise choice.

“What I’m saying my friend, is that I can’t see why this would be any…any worse.”

Marik found silence and the own hum of this thoughts as he decided to examine the bar surface. His skin prickled at Gaer’s words, which although rung true, were not duly welcomed. If many of his old superiors knew now that he worked for the Blue Suns, they would turn in their very graves. It was enough that his established reputation and career was tainted by his actions – something he’d never forgive himself for. Yet the bottle was still something he clung to, although not as avidly as he’d done in the past. The work of the Blue Suns had sorted that out. He’d been with them for as little as six months – most of the jobs he’d carried out were relatively tame. He was essentially a gun for hire.

It was clear that the human Laurel Westfahl still carried the wounds of her soldiering days. He guessed she was still relatively young, probably now around thirty or so but that was hardly adolescent. She hadn’t changed much in the last eleven years, except her face had somewhat matured and her ‘fringe’ was much longer. It was worrying that his memory had faded – so much that he couldn’t remember her when she was working in that bar. But what was _she_ \- a mere human he’d come across during the Relay 314 Incident? He was surprised at her declaration of memory loss – a rather unusual way to lie. Whether she had been telling the truth he tried to admit to himself he did not care. Her accusations against the human ‘Jensen’ being her betrayer perhaps were one of an ill mind. He thought that years spent in a military prison would’ve hardened her emotional resolve and matured her.

“I fear it's too late,” said Marik suddenly. “Dellria, our inside source, would’ve seen it as a betrayal. From an outside view, the others would as well. I should’ve turned back.”

“They have _that_ little faith in you?” said Gaer.

“It’s the _Blue Suns_. They have no loyalty to one another but Aria – and that’s out of fear, force or admiration. They’d happily stab one another in the back for credits.” There was disgust in his deep voice.

“Sounds like you’re becoming self-aware, Marik,” replied Gaer, after a few minutes of quiet. “You couldn’t turn back. I've no doubt that the human Jensen would’ve killed you both – with the help of his bodyguards. He has a fierce reputation.”

“Perhaps I am,” said Marik. “The minute I am left to think, that’s when I become self-aware.”

“That’s why reynor is such a friend to you. It helps you forget,” said Gaer. Marik let this one go. His previous irritation at Gaer’s frankness had dissolved for now. For now, his mind returned to Westfahl.

 


	26. Chapter 26

The lights were off when Laurel woke again, but every inch of her skin was covered in sweat. Her hand seared with pain but her head, back and buttocks now ached, probably as a result of her fight with Marik. There was no sign of him, but after her dream she was glad he wasn’t around. It was nine in the morning. Switching on the light she saw he had cleaned up the mess on the floor. She then quickly showered away the sweat on her body, leaving her hair to dry naturally when she towelled off. I’ll have to find more clothes, she thought, pulling on her dirty black jumpsuit she’d worn the previous night. Her skin prickled with the cool freshness of the air. Gaer the salarian innkeeper was talking quietly to Marik when she found her way back downstairs. Thankfully the large bar was devoid of customers, and Marik was seated with an empty plate in front of him. Gaer stopped talking when she entered the room, his gaze hostile. Marik didn’t bother to turn and greet her. With the memory of eleven years ago now completely fresh in her mind, awkwardness encapsulated her body making her grow stiff with dread.

“You did quite a number on him,” Gaer spoke to break the silence. “All human females this violent?” His tone might’ve been jokey, but to her it was full of loathing. She ignored him and glanced at the turian seated at the bar with his large arms resting on the bar’s surface.

“I thought you’d be gone by now,” she said quietly.

“Would be unwise, huma - _Westfahl_ ,” he corrected, without looking at her. She wasn’t sure what to say now – what to _do_.

“They’ll be looking for you here,” said Gaer. “You’ve all come here at least once before.” The salarian busied with something in a drawer behind him for a moment, before putting a small bottle of clear liquid on the bar surface. _Lidocaine, 10mg._

“I’ve closed the bar until midday. You’ll have plenty of time,” said the salarian, nodding towards Marik.  
  
Marik got up, somewhat reluctantly, beckoning her to follow him out the back after grabbing the bottle. She followed his tall form into a small room, what looked like to be Gaer’s admin office, adjacent to the kitchens and store room further out the back. Marik took a syringe from a clear metal tray that looked pre-prepared. He then inserted it into the bottle, tipping it upside down, taking a step towards her. Laurel frowned, perturbed that he didn’t say anything, but heard the door bleep shut and a pistol being cocked – right beside her ear.

“Before I stitch this hand of yours back up I need to be sure you’re not lying to me. You’ve lied before, and I do not appreciate being lied to now,” he said. He did not step closer, but his gaze was penetrative as he held the syringe. Hadn’t she tried to sleep her anger off? Her jaw was set hard in place. 

“Why are you asking me this now?” she asked through gritted teeth.

“How does he know you’re not secretly working with this Jensen?” said Gaer behind her, pushing the cold barrel of his pistol into the back of her skull. She flinched.

“Why _would_ I be?” she whispered.

“Because its rather too convenient you know him,” said Gaer again. “For all we know, you could be his infiltrator attempting to ruin Aria’s plan.”

“I don’t fucking remember you being-”

“I wouldn’t raise your temper, human,” said Marik. “You’re not in a good position for that. I’m asking this because if we’re to work together in sorting out this mess, then I need to be able to trust you.” She pursed her lips, still meeting his piercing gaze, unable to believe her ears.

“Trust? By putting a gun to my head? Why can I _possibly_ do to convince you?” she said.

“Tell us the whole story,” seethed the salarian behind her.

“All evidence goes against me. There’s nothing to prove my innocence in five seconds! How many _times_ can I tell people that Jensen was the one who betrayed me all those years ago…that I did not plan to blow your fleet to oblivion?” There was a brief silence. The air was charged with electricity.

“What’re you talkin about?” spat Gaer.

Marik’s posture loosened a little, and she saw his eyes move to Gaer. He moved his head to signal the salarian out of the room, to which he huffily obliged. He made sure his temper was known, kicking a chair over before the door shut behind him. Laurel relaxed slightly, now knowing she wasn’t in danger of having her brain blown apart. She drew up the chair and flopped down on it, suddenly feeling exhausted. Marik didn’t say anything like she thought he would. She heard him washing his hands in the kitchens, and slowly unwound the bandage round her hand. The wound was looking septic. By the time he returned, Laurel held her hand out, her head turned away from him. She heard him put on medical gloves.

“Lying is considered very iniquitous in my culture,” he began, preparing his utensils. His voice sounded even, but she could detect the underlining meaning in his flanging tone. She bit her lip in order to quell the latest abrasive insult on her mind.

“Turians are quite incapable of lying…for long periods at least,” he continued.

“I don’t like this mess anymore than you do,” she said quietly. She heard him click his tongue in annoyance. She glanced to see his newly gloved talons holding a needle and thread.

“If you please,” he said, his mandibles flaring out. Shakily she took the thread and automatically wetted the end of thread, threaded it through the needle and tied a knot at the end without thinking.

“Are you trying my patience?” he said, not taking the needle and thread back. She’d realised what she’d done – a habit shown and then picked up from her mother. She nearly smiled at this simple mistake, but it was simultaneously painful.

“Sorry, it’s a habit. My…mum was talented in the age-old…”

She lost herself, seeing how intensely he was observing her. He didn’t say anything more, clearly uninterested in her family history and seized her hand, bringing her closer to him than she would’ve liked. She held the needle until he’d finished re-cleaning the wound and finally administered the anaesthesia, jabbing the needle into the top of her hand. His talons, more visible through the plastic of the medical gloves, were unexpectedly warm on her skin.

“Start at the end of the wound here,” she said, seeing him hesitate for a moment after they waited for her hand to go numb.

“I can see why this particular wound needs stitching,” he murmured as he took the needle carefully. It was deeper than he’d thought.

“Bring the needle out from the back of the skin, so the knot is secure,” she told him, which he diligently followed. It surprised her how gentle he was being – only a few hours ago they were at each other throats.

“Now what?” he said.

“Push it back down through the other side of skin,” she instructed him. “I don’t know, but I’m guessing you’ll want to make running loops. Then secure with another knot. You’ll have to do that yourself.” She knew it was probably the incorrect way – but how could both of them know?

“It seems you do know,” he said as his hand slowly moved up and down as he threaded her skin back together.

She didn’t say anything. Her knee brushed his larger one – if she could call it a knee, with the unusual spur sticking up beside it. Laurel tried to close her eyes and think of something else, anything but the turian who was sat close, stitching her hand up. She could feel her blood thrum through her. She was relieved when he finished it off with a cut of the thread. She’d pick up some antibiotics to treat the infection, providing that she got off this planet alive. It was a pleasure not to feel the throb in her hand anymore. He slipped his gloves off, throwing them into the incinerator in the kitchen. Laurel found herself waiting for him to return – she owed him that little. He re-entered the room, wringing his talons together although for a turian it was probably not a symbol of anxiety. His unusual skin appeared in several colours in different lights. Under the amber light of the bar, it was a dark brown. In this bright light of the office, it returned to its usual mushroom colour, interspersed with dark ochres and khakis. Realising that she might be observing him too closely, Laurel decided to look away for a moment.

“It is entirely likely that the rest of the crew will suspect us as betrayers. Either that, or they assumed we were assassinated,” he announced. It was beginning to dawn on her that she was essentially homeless with no savings, little in the bank and no possessions such as clothes, passport and her gun.

“Gaer can secure a flight offworld – in a couple of hours time,” continued Marik, breaking her thoughts.

“I don’t have enough for an offworld flight,” she said, frowning. Marik shifted from one foot to the other. If she knew better, he appeared somewhat awkward.

“Luckily, Gaer knows the pilot. He can make an exception…”

“ _Turian_ , I don’t have any life savings. My record is blackened – I’m reduced to working in waitressing jobs and believe me, that’s better than most jobs I have to do,” she said. It was hard to retain some semblance of dignity – she felt like he had seen too much of her failures and her vulnerabilities.

“I didn’t have the option to save while I was in prison-”

“I’m giving you a chance to catch a _free_ flight offworld,” Marik snapped. “That’s it. I’m not going to sort out your problems there and then.” She folded her arms, taking a step closer to him.

“And what’re you gonna do? Stand behind and play ‘hero’? Surely you’re not going to crawl back to them? It still surprises me that some turian like you could end up with the most notorious merc group in the galaxy.” Marik’s body visibly stiffened, his hawk-like eyes narrowing and his mandibles widening on his face – as if he’d gritted his jaw.

“Haven’t I warned you that pushing me is foolish?” he warned.

“Why?!” she cried, throwing her hands up exasperatedly. “What have I possibly got to lose?” He watched her for a moment as she paced the room in anger.

“You don’t know me, Westfahl, as I don’t know you. Let’s keep whatever presumptions we have of each other at bay.”

With that he pushed roughly past her, back into the bar area.

 

* * *

 

Gaer had indeed secured them a flight offworld, but he wasn’t too pleased about the fact that Laurel was going to make use of it. It was a small ship, bound for the Citadel. Unlike most flights, it wasn’t going to make any stops, seeing as most of its passengers were looking for a fast way out. It was nothing more than a large cargo-bay with huge crates that took up the baulk of the room. It was loud, airy and cold inside, and Laurel felt the brief spike of fear as the ship took off. The walls round them rattled. When they reached space, thankfully it stopped. Most of the inhabitants were single passengers and kept to themselves; a batarian, three turians and two humans. They all ignored each other as they sat in their seats, aligned next to each other against the wall.  
  
The seats were as close to each other as you’d see on an Alliance escape pod, but as Laurel sat there she could feel the heat radiating off Marik’s unusual plate-like skin. She managed to fall asleep for the first hour, but was jolted awake by the second. Turning her head, she saw Marik looking at her. He might’ve just casually glanced over at her jerky movement, but it unnerved her nonetheless. She had one of those dreams where she’d either fallen or continued to fall, ultimately making her jolt awake. Some of them was where she was waiting for an old-fashioned bullet, looking down the end of a barrel. As soon as it hit her, she’d jar herself into consciousness. The cargo-bay didn’t have much in the way of heating. She pulled her arms into her abdomen tightly, against the rising cold. She’d be glad to rid herself of his dirty jumpsuit, not to mention her heels, which made her feet ache like hell.

“If it wasn’t you,” began the gravelly voice next to her. She let him continue, too weary, hungry and aching to shut him off properly. “Then how did you let Jensen get away with it? You ended up on Shanxi.” This surprised her.

“I thought you weren’t interested in getting to know me,” she replied without turning to look at him.

“I’m curious, is all,” was her reply. Her forehead knitted.

“It’s irrelevant now. And when we dock at the Citadel, I’ll be another insignificant wisp in your turian memory,” she said.  
  
_The Citadel._ Laurel wasn’t sure if she wanted to return. She’d been homesick for Earth for far too long. Living on space stations took its toll after a while.

“Well, while we spend our last few hours together, why can’t I ask you such questions?” he said. Annoyance ran through her.

“I don’t have to give you an answer,” she snapped. He didn’t push her any further, and she spent the next few agonising hours either ignoring him or trying to sleep. When the ETA was only an hour after jumping several relays, he finally spoke to break their silence.

“At least grant me _one_ response. You put the end of the thread in your mouth…you said it was a habit. Something to do with your mother.” Her eyes were heavy and her buttocks were sore from the uncomfortable chair.

“My mum was a dressmaker….” she began quietly. The rest of the passengers were now awake, aware that their arrival was imminent. “She made all our own clothes, taught me and my sister how to sew. She started an online business…. made formal wear once we grew up and wanted to buy the latest fashions. But she quit.”

“Fashion?” he asked, nonplussed. Surprised, she turned to look at him for a moment. His yellow eyes were not so prominent in the dark light of the bay. His eye sockets looked like large, black holes, which was unsettling to look at. She glanced away swiftly.

“Um…I don’t know how to explain it. The style of clothing that is popular for the time…”

“I see,” he replied, nodding his large head. “Not an aspect of turian culture.”

She was dreading his next question – about her parents – but thankfully it never came. Why would he? He already knew that they had cut her off many years ago. He knew that as soon as they captured her – just a simple file searched and found in a bombed out police station on Shanxi.

“Quid pro quo,” she whispered to him, unable to stop herself.

“What?”

“I told you something. Perhaps you can answer my earlier question – how did you become a General?” He stared at her longer than necessary, perhaps surprised by her courage to ask him again. His greying forehead plates moved for several moments, as if in contemplation.

“A couple of years after the relay incident. I’d stopped serving on the front lines as a surgeon when I was only a Lieutenant Commander,” was his answer.

“How did you end up with-?”

“No more, Westfahl,” he said quietly.  
  
Laurel was surprised by his sudden lack of aggression. They soon enough docked at the Citadel, filing out of the ship one by one. It felt more than strange to be back on the space station, brimming with unfamiliar alien faces and lean, chromatic surfaces. She received a few lingering stares – she was quite a sight when she caught her reflection on a shiny wall opposite the ship; her bandaged hand, pinkish bruising beginning to show on her arms, her dirty jumpsuit and swollen nose. She forgot about the possibility of a broken nose. The other passengers had drifted off as she stood there contemplating her reflection. Marik came up beside her, his eyes meeting hers in the reflection. The top of her head only reached his shoulders. Only hours ago she’d tried to take his beastly, enormous form down, injured and exhausted.

“What’re you gonna do?” she asked him, turning round.

“I still have an apartment here,” he said. There was a stunted awkward silence, with only the sounds of the dock in the background.

“What about the Suns?” she persisted. “Aria?”

“Perhaps I have you to thank,” he sighed, making her raise her eyebrows. “I admit I’ve made a mess of my life…the rest of it wouldn’t be spent well in such a group. As for Aria who knows. She’s smart enough to not listen to Banks or Mire who’ll assume we were betrayers. I can’t be sure, but it’s a big galaxy. They’d use too much time and resources to try and track us down. Aria’s preoccupation will be Jensen and her stolen money, not matter what happened to us.”  
  
This was a rather astute observation about Aria. He didn’t ask what she was going to do, and she found whatever words were in her mouth had moved to form a bulge in her throat. He seemed strangely informal at this point with his shoulders slumped. He was tired, just like she was.

“Goodbye, Westfahl,” he suddenly announced, and turned back round. He limped slowly away. Laurel stood there still, watching his form retreat away silently. Ships arrived, ships left, as she stood there. She watched until he was a dot, and then vanished.


	27. Chapter 27

**Six Months Later**

 

She found another waitressing job, and rented a somewhat run-down flat on one of the wards. It was small, sparsely decorated, but she’d seen and rented worse on Omega. She started the New Year working at a restaurant, a slight improvement from her previous dingy bars. It employed either asari or salarians, but they accepted her nonetheless. It was 2169, and she’d just turned thirty-six. Life was passing her by. She tried to catch up with the latest news from Earth, having been away from it for so long: L2 biotic implants had recently been developed, but was later followed by the incident where BAAT or the ‘Biotic Acclimation and Temperance Training’ base had been shut down under mysterious circumstances. The diplomatic issues between humans and turians were strained further. Laurel took as much overtime that was offered to her, hoping to save up for another offworld flight.  
  
Originally she had returned to her old bar, _Mozarts_ , in hope of finding Jon. One of the employees told her he'd moved away and they hadn’t heard from him since. In the same week, she contacted her university in hope of returning to her course. When she arrived at the very familiar campus in the presidium, the rather hostile student-office receptionist told her they'd retracted the funding for her course and taken her off the register. The reason was she'd been ‘absent without leave.' By the end of that particular bad week, she’d been singled out by a group of seedy-looking turians, who beat her down a dark alleyway. A salarian witness offered to help her but she politely refused. This confused the salarian who asked her why.

“They chose to because I was the one that detonated that nuclear warhead in turian space,” she said simply. She healed her wounds herself, refusing to let C-Sec get involved. What would be the point? She’d saved up at least half for a new course in six months. It would probably take her another six months or more to afford the university fees. However, it gave her a sense of hope, a goal for her to look forward to.

When it reached seven months, she unexpectedly crossed paths with her younger sister Anise. It was on the Zakera Ward and Anise was with another woman who was dressed just as smartly as she was. Her sister looked important with her tight bun, high heels and dress-suit – a diplomat, maybe? Laurel was going to turn away, hoping to dispel the situation quickly, but Anise called out to her.

“Wait, Laurel!” This was a sister who had shunned her years ago, along with her father and other sister. The initial resentment felt by Laurel towards her sisters had dissolved now, but awkwardness remained.

“Please, I know what you’re thinking,” said Anise, almost begging.  
  
Laurel turned back round with reluctance. She spent the last ten years and more trying to block the painful, broken relationship with her family out. She looked at Anise’s face, aged since she last saw it, but it had also changed – the childish roundness had disappeared. Laurel hadn’t seen her sisters properly for the last eleven to twelve years. She’d bumped into Anise one summer, who had been late for a meeting and brushed her off awkwardly.

“Let’s not force this already uncomfortable relationship,” was Laurel’s reply. Anise, to her astonishment, began to softly weep. Laurel didn’t move to comfort her, letting her cry for a minute or so. Her sister’s perfectly primed make-up was beginning to run in little rivulets down her cheeks.

“We need to talk,” she said, after snuffling and patting her tears away with the back of her hand. She rolled her eyes to quell the tears and huffed as if embarrassed or exasperated with herself. This delicate action of maintaining her make-up and composure incensed Laurel more than she anticipated.

“I’m sorry for blubbering,” blurted Anise.

“Just stop it,” snapped Laurel. Anise fixed her with a cold stare when she was sure her make-up was still immaculate.

“We need to talk over dinner or something. I've some news you need to know,” her sister finally said after a silence. A silence that throbbed with ache and unease.

“Whatever you've got to say, you tell me _now_ ,” said Laurel.  
  
She felt like lashing out at her perfect, primed sister – the one whom she was close to many years ago. The one who was now some diplomatic official who changed her name when she married, the one who probably had a child and owned a large, beautiful house. Anise seemed to have erased in her appearance anything that remotely resembled the young girl that Laurel remembered being close to; the glossy, straight hair; the expensive, flashy clothes with manicured nails and shiny handbags; the absence of anything that used to be her.  
  
Anise had been intensely intelligent with bookish habits and a distinct lack of care for her appearance: in this context, she had no interest in make-up, clothes, or boys. She wrote creatively, avoided sports like the plague but enjoyed camping with Laurel and their mother during their school summer holidays. Ever since Laurel had stood up for her at school she had returned this favour. By the time Laurel had left school, their father had decided to spend his retiree’s wage on private schooling for Anise and her youngest sister, Fern. Every day Anise came back a little different.

“Mum’s died,” was Anise’s answer.

Every day Anise was less the sister she knew and more the product of a society that her father had wished for.

 

* * *

  

Absedeus Marik returned to his apartment, which was dusty and cold inside. After a year, it was essentially the same. Having an apartment in the Presidium mostly granted him safety from burglaries. He threw out the beyond-mouldy food in his refrigerator and went shopping for more, but only came back with bottles of reynor. The assistant in the food market had raised an eyebrow at him. He tried to keep a low profile – after all he’d been absent for over a year. The Hierarchy hadn’t known what happened to him and he presumed he was on the records as AWOL or something similar. He spent his days in his too-large apartment, drinking himself into a stupor, keeping the television on for company. His apartment was Spartan furnished, which was typical for turian houses. However his was particularly devoid of anything remotely sentimental. After a day or so, he reappeared to buy food and spent the next few days eating, drinking and sleeping. Watching the occasional trashy show on his large screen.  
  
By day six, he’d already allowed himself to get so drunk he’d vomited on and off for an entire day afterwards. He found himself thinking a lot about Westfahl while he slept off his hangovers. He cured a couple of hangovers by drinking even more. When he fell asleep, he had dreams and they were mostly involving her. It was unusual for him to have dreams, but then again, they often accompanied alcohol and quite vividly as well. Thankfully he didn’t remember them by the mid-afternoon when he woke up, but his head was heavy, achy and full of her. Certain evenings he thought about her reactions towards him as he made his dinner. Making and cooking food helped him stay away from the bottle – one of the few things he was exceptional at apart from shooting and performing surgery. As a fortnight passed, his passion for the bottle waned slightly, and he took to cooking and keeping an e-journal.

 

_Perhaps it is my ever-increasing age – I can’t stand these hangovers. They’re never pleasant but I barely felt it in my younger years. It is normal for turians not to feel such affects at a young age, but I didn’t realise that the onset of one’s middle age made drinking heavily so unbearable. What has been my friend for many years has now betrayed me at last. For now returning to making gourmet foods have been a distraction._

Certain days he found himself combing over news footage, news articles and extranet searches on Laurel Westfahl.

 

_I cannot help but feel a certain curiosity towards the female human who accompanied us on our (failed) Blue Suns mission (I will talk about that later). I forget she was so young when the Incident occurred, and yet had only been in the human Alliance military for four years. What had made her parents abandon her so willingly?_

He found out details about her father, through some dodgy news website (one that was, he thought, extremely extremist in its views towards not only other species, but humans that did not ‘fit’ a certain quota). He was an Admiral in the Alliance military that’d been forced to retire early, due to a recurring ‘knee’ injury (he could only guess what part of the human body that was) that required extensive surgery. In other words, Marik thought, he was getting old and past his prime – at seventy-four, despite medical advances, the body was not ripe anymore for military combat and stress.

_Her anger towards me was justified and it was to be expected. She anticipated an apology but I wouldn’t lower myself so. I hated humans as much as they hated us – and at that time I wanted to punish her for killing so many of my soldiers. Everything I’ve read on the extranet tells me nothing more than what I already know. The photos of her during and after the trial are disturbing – she looks thin, haggard…much like she did when I first met her._

_It is disconcerting to think that she indeed might be right. But even if she is, there’s no evidence to redeem her – several articles have reported that the Alliance had agents scouting the ruins of Shanxi for anything to tell them differently. If she’s right, then the real culprit Jensen is cleverer and more insidious than he looks. He has planted evidence carefully and well._

_Perhaps I was too harsh on her, but her lying (the ‘amnesia’) and easy deference was infuriating. She’d been very easy to break – and it seems she’s still fragile. Her screams were not shocking, but her curious wailing on one night was. Yet I cannot judge my actions of eleven years ago, I was a different individual then. Many things have changed for me now._

After this latest entry, he found he was trying hard not to feel remorse. He knew that at the time one of his guards (he forgot the name) had a sadistic side, and had taken great pleasure in making her stop that snuffling, wailing sound. He’d never heard anything like it – but he could differentiate it from the yells of pain when they’d beaten her. It surprised him at the time how easy it was to break human skin and yet she’d felt supple and strong when she’d thumped him at the Inn. Her skin had felt so smooth, almost velvety during that same altercation. When he’d put his hand in her fringe (hair, he later found out) to lift her up and away from him, it made him almost shudder with the unexpected sensation. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting – it didn’t look hard, or particularly pliable. He’d never seen anything like it, not even ‘fur’ on other native species on his home planet.  
  
When Marik first saw images of humans’ years ago, he thought they were very curious looking indeed. Flat faces with high foreheads and lithe bodies. Round bulging eyes and protruding noses. Too many fingers on their hands. He wasn’t sure where, but he’d come across an image of a human infant after a birth. It was strange to see that the infant had a neck that looked as if it couldn’t support such a large head. After dwelling on this, he found himself researching human anatomy. He thought human customs and cultural taboos about their own bodies was strange, particularly about the female body. He deleted his history immediately, after becoming conscious of how much he was researching. In embarrassment, he turned back to the bottle. By the third week, he was becoming wary of making a public appearance, especially as he was entering and exiting the Presidium regularly. He did not want to bump into diplomatic officials or politicians, especially those whom he was employed under as a ‘military advisor.’ On a food-shopping trip during the third week, his old acquaintance Vuren approached him.

“Absedeus Marik,” he said, opening his arms out. It looked like he was about to embrace Marik. He took a step back in return. Vuren hadn’t changed in over a year, although the red marks on his face seemed more prominent.

“I heard you’d disappeared without notice,” said Vuren. His eyes drifted briefly to Marik’s cart; four bottles amongst a couple of ready meals.

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” replied Marik, becoming quickly irritated with Vuren’s staring. There was a short silence between them.

“A drink? On me of course,” said Vuren to dispel the awkward silence.  
  
Marik reluctantly agreed, not even finishing his shopping, having plonked the cart down on an empty shelf. Vuren chose Flux this time, which was popular among humans, asari and turians, who chose to mingle together more in this club. Pink, blue and green neon lit up Marik’s tired face as they climbed the steps to the chrome bar, manned by a young-looking salarian and a bored asari. Marik purposely chose a non-alcoholic drink, questioning himself why he cared what Vuren thought. Vuren had already seen the bottles in his shopping cart.

“You don’t have to stand on ceremony, you know,” joked Vuren after placing their orders.

“It’s something about this space station,” answered Marik, glancing at the curvy shapes of the asari on the dance floor. “Formal, uptight…. Somehow those rigid social protocols come back to haunt you.” Vuren laughed again, but he stopped shortly after seeing Marik did not respond. His long talons tapped the surface of the bar somewhat nervously.

“What happened, Deus? Where did you go? Does the embassy know?” Marik tried not to prickle at his former nickname being used so casually. Vuren, no matter how high he was in the military now, was insulting Marik because he was younger and more inexperienced compared to his elder. He always had a peculiar knack of trying to overshadow Marik – to overstep the boundaries with elders in turian society is seen as highly distasteful.

“Of course not. And I’ve no interest in telling them either. I don’t want to go back to that job.” Marik took a long slurp of his drink, but he winced at the sweetness of it.

“I can get you a job back on the Presidium,” said Vuren.

“I don’t want it,” snapped Marik angrily. “You of all turians should know that I resent that job more than anything else.” Vuren looked taken aback at this sudden aggression.

“Then why come back? There was talk of you…on Omega. With the Blue Suns,” Vuren said, his voice lowering slightly. Marik stared straight ahead, fixing his gaze on an inane corner of the bar.

“I’m only offering you this because no one else will take you on,” persisted Vuren, drawing closer in, close enough that Marik could feel the heat radiating from him. “You’ve tarnished your reputation beyond-”

“It was a mistake to return here,” muttered Marik, barely listening to Vuren.

“Please don’t confirm the rumours, Deus, please,” said Vuren, turning away in his seat, erupting with a sigh. “What happened to you? And if the rumours are true, why the Suns, dammit? What made you come back here if you hated it so?” Marik was quiet for a moment, staring deep into his bright orange beverage.

“A woman,” he answered, glancing at Vuren honestly. Vuren looked like he softened momentarily, his brow plates rising.

“A _woman_?”

“A human female…and no, it’s not like that.” The alcohol he’d drunk earlier had loosened his tongue on this subject more than he liked.

“I had her tortured during the incident. I remember my anger…”

“The human,” began Vuren. “Who detonated a nuclear warhead?”

“Yes…she didn’t confess anything, saying she suffered from amnesia. I realise now that she was telling the truth. A building had collapsed on her, bashing her head.”

“I thought she was still rotting in prison,” said Vuren, taking a large sip from his glass.

“No. Let out early for good behaviour. Yet she told me that it was another human…there was fear and pain in her as she confided in me. I only realise now, looking back, that I believe her. I didn’t then.”

“Because it brought up bad memories? It’s no secret what happened with you, Deus.” Vuren’s voice had taken an unfriendly tone once again, as he stood back up. Marik glanced at his glass, which wasn’t empty.

“If you don’t like politics, what about C-Sec? I know a friend who is Chief there. I can get you a job. You can’t retire at fifty-two.” Marik gave an uncommitted half-nod, a signal good enough for Vuren. Before Vuren could turn away without giving him a formal farewell, he stood up and grabbed Vuren’s arm roughly.

“Do not call me by my former name again,” he hissed into the younger turian’s enclosed-earhole. If he wanted, he could rip Vuren’s arm off. “Despite your own opinions and those of the embassy, I am not below you disrespecting me in public.” Vuren ripped his arm away unexpectedly in response. Marik barely moved an inch, but was surprised by it nonetheless.

“You deserve no more respect,” spat Vuren, leaning into the elder turian’s face. “Then the average weasel that works for the Blue Suns. Respect is earned, Marik. And you lost that title years ago.”  
  
He stormed away, leaving a few onlookers to stare curiously at Marik. He stood there awkwardly, his mind reeling and his blood beating hard against his skull. He’d never felt more insulted in his life. The title, General, had been officially rescinded three years ago. Instead of leaving the bar, he returned to his beverage and ordered an alcoholic one this time round. He didn’t care if anyone recognised him. He spent the rest of the night there, watching the dancers absent-mindedly or the bartenders making the drinks. His mind drifted back to Westfahl. She’d always made his drink at the Moat-Zart bar perfectly. He wasn’t sure how; the temperature, the one large ice cube or the shape of the glass. He thought of her misaligned fingers, taking the bottle and pouring it high and from an angle as it was meant to be poured. He suddenly pictured those soft fingers broken by turian boots and cringed at this. Marik drank until he could get the image of her out of his head, but he remembered the large marking on her back; the one with wings. The way her shoulder blades had moved under her skin, making those wings magically move. The animal had a hooked beak and haunting eyes.

Perhaps he was longing for her company because she, like him, was just as troubled and broken, having lost her way in their ultimately brief existence.

 


	28. Chapter 28

Anise Westfahl, or Anise Carter as she was now known, was tall and once curly-haired like her sister. Hers was now straight, and Laurel could probably imagine she had it permanently straightened. Anise wore a smart dress-suit, one that diplomats often wore, as was the fashion. She had friends in high places, including that of the high society on the Citadel, and found them a table at an elaborate gourmet restaurant on the Presidium. Laurel wasn’t dressed for the occasion – sporting her usual oversized plaid shirt under a leather jacket. Her jeans were tattered and her boots were clumpy. She received disapproving looks from a few haughty-looking customers who were perhaps overdressed. Laurel now in her thirties didn’t let things like this bother her anymore – it might’ve bothered her once when she was in her teens and early twenties. Even the waiter had given her a look that appeared he’d been sucking a lemon for the past hour. By the time Laurel had sat down, refusing the waiter’s placing of the napkin on her lap, many people were looking at her. There was already bile stinging the back of her throat and she felt immediately exhausted. Anise was calmly and quietly studying the holo-menu on the glass table. The looks of the snooty people, coupled with the overly formal setting with the ridiculous menu set Laurel’s teeth on edge.

“Why are we _here_?” she finally said. Anise fixed her with an impassive gaze. Laurel wished they were at a bar. She’d find it easier speaking to Anise if they weren’t facing each other.

“I get a discount here,” her sister replied with simplicity. Laurel raised an eyebrow.

“I forget what your title is. It’s probably changed, right? I didn’t know you married either.”

“Diplomatic Interstellar-Alliance Consulate. I work at the embassy. I met Ian a couple of years ago. He works in shipping.”

“On Earth or…?”

“On the Citadel.” The waiter returned and they ordered their drinks. Laurel ordered the plainest thing on the menu.

“How’s Dad and Fern?” Fern was the youngest sister, now twenty-eight. Laurel hadn’t seen her in nearly twelve years. She wondered if she’d become less affected and self-centered. Anise had lost whatever Laurel had known beforehand – she was now professional, distant, perhaps pedantic like their father.

“Barely coping, to be honest,” was the reply. They fell silent as the waiter returned with their drinks. Laurel had ordered ale (again, the waiter’s nose turned up), whereas Anise stuck with her usual red.

“What was it,” said Laurel, immediately taking a sip after she said this. Anise looked confused for a moment, so Laurel clarified.

“What did Mum die from?” The words stung. 

“A stroke,” replied Anise. Laurel gauged Anise’s expressions and manner for a moment. If anything, she suspected that what her sister had told her hadn’t been entirely true.

“This wasn’t just a few days ago, was it,” said Laurel, taking another sip. Every time she asked a question she didn’t want to hear an answer to, the bitterness of the ale seemed like the best antidote. Her chest ached, the blood in her veins thrumming to each of her digits, and her tongue pressed against the roof of her mouth. She was tired and there was no sting in her words.

“God, I’m so sorry Laurel,” said Anise, putting her head in her hands. “It was two years ago.” Laurel stared at her for a few minutes in silence. Bitterness quickly replaced sorrow.

“You didn’t think to _call_ me?” Where was she two years ago? _Mozarts, here on the Citadel._ “I was working at a bar here.”

“We hadn’t spoken for so long. I had no way of reaching you-”

“I doubt that,” snapped Laurel, her voice raised enough to provoke more stares. Anise looked horribly uncomfortable, the visible lump in her throat moving up and down quickly.

“Look, I didn’t bring you here to argue with you-”

“No, you brought me here because we just happened to bump into each other. You’re just filling your ‘the good sister’ end of the bargain.” Anise’s face morphed into shock.

“Why must you be so insensitive? I want you to come _home_ …. It’s time for you to come home,” said Anise, leaning across the table. Laurel had trouble keeping the tears out of her eyes.

“Me? _Insensitive_? You and Dad made sure I was cut out of the picture for good. You didn’t support me, question the trial, question why your sister would commit such a crime…”

“What was I supposed to do, Laurel? Dad cut you off before you joined the Alliance. You got kicked out of several schools, you were in trouble with the law so many times…”

“Yeah, that must’ve been _really_ embarrassing for Dad,” said Laurel, slouching back in her chair, echoing that of her unruly teenage self.  She played with her fork feeling like she wanted to stab it into the table. Anise ignored this, although she was aware they were being stared at now, and she was sure one of the male turians on her far right had got up to complain.

“You ever hear from Mum when I was away? She didn’t visit me that often.” Anise was looking at her hands that were on the table.

“Hardly. She told me you were innocent,” she replied. Laurel wasn’t too surprised by her mother not contacting Anise or Fern that often. Despite their busy lives, Anise had never shown much interest in keeping contact with their mother. Their step-mother Emma had become the mother that both Anise and Fern related to – only because they were eight and four when their father remarried. Laurel had been thirteen. 

“That’s because I _was_ ,” hissed Laurel, tears gathering in her eyes. Why did she always feel like the uncontrollable, emotional rule-breaking wreck? Perhaps it was Anise who made her feel that way. Her expression was was stoic.  

“It’s your word against the overwhelming evidence, the testimonies of-”

“You know what, Anise, I’m not going to go back and coax _Daddy_ into liking me!’” she mocked, standing up. Anise stood up too, her face still impassive. She appeared suddenly small under the harsh light of the restaurant.

“Wait, Laurel, please…I’m sorry,” she pleaded. “I didn’t want it to go this way.”

“Then how did you want it to go?” asked Laurel. Her tears had dried up. The waiter intervened, touching Anise’s arm lightly.

“Ms. Carter, is everything alright?” Anise nodded, and the waiter retreated, but she seemed hesitant on her final answer.

“I’m number 234 on the south-facing street on Meldera Ward,” said Laurel reciting her home address. “Come find me when you’ve got an answer.” Despite the stares, she walked out of the restaurant confident, until she returned home. In the lonely silence of her apartment, the news of her mother’s death - her mum, her wonderful, precious mum -  hit her fully.

* * *

 

**2170 - Six months later**

 

The blue screen in front had been glaring at him for too long. The law enforcement side of C-Sec that he’d been working in for the last six months had now bored him beyond misery. He’d offered at first to do the most mundane of jobs – what the human officers termed ‘paperwork’ but after a month he quickly became distracted and jaded. Vuren had recommended the lighter side of the job as a way to ease him, as he received treatment for his addiction. As he sat there thinking, the blue screen highlighting his weary features, he mused on the only good thing about C-Sec - he was no longer an alcoholic. At first he was resentful about giving it up, and directed mainly at Vuren – who in the end secured his employment with C-Sec and his reputation with the Council, the Turian Embassy and the Hierarchy back home.  
  
Vuren had more reach and influence than Marik realised. Vuren covered Marik’s absence with a story about an illness – helpfully ‘supported’ by the doctor who treated his addiction. His addiction was not something heard or talked about much in his culture, and if it were, he’d be disgraced beyond a means of saving his reputation. It had been unbelievably hard for the first couple of months – and it was still hard now. Shopping proved difficult as well – why did alcohol suddenly seem so prevalent? The amount of calls he had dealing with altercations at seedy bars did make him see it all in a different light. But he knew why they were drinking it – it seemed to affect turians, humans, and asari more than any other race.  

He did not have much contact with his previous employers – the Council and the turian military, who were more than willing to believe his illness story. They did not question the sudden absence, the lack of communication, the leave of office for over a year. But he knew that to question him about his illness would more than likely shame him – as a once decorated military general, such matters that would be traditionally seen as ‘weakness’ was an unfavourable topic for conversation. Vuren had done much for him in these last few months – more than he could’ve hoped for. Recently Vuren had started to treat him as if Marik owed him something. This was mostly passive aggressive comments by subtly patronising him in conversation. ‘Cured’ of his alcohol addiction, Marik returned to routine and purpose yet there was something distinctly lacking. Now that alcohol was not an option, and he had settled into his new job, the memories of his past began to slowly haunt him, starting with his dreams.

* * *

 

“There’s been a break-in and assault at the human embassy office,” said Marik’s younger C-Sec partner, shrugging on her outer-coat. Marik’s eyes flicked towards the digital clock embedded in the wall. Eleven-forty pm, it said in neon blue. _Finally,_ were his thoughts as he took the skycar with his colleague, Pavra.

“Details,” said Marik as he weaved through the busy traffic. The Citadel never slept, as blurry images of white lights interspersed with neon blues, reds, and purples flashed by.

“Break-in approx. thirty minutes ago. Power was cut so nothing on the cameras. A few members of staff were working late, two of them were injured in the scuffle.”

“What staff were these?” asked Marik.

“Former is a security guard, latter is human diplomat Anise Carter. Official title is Diplomatic Interstellar-Alliance Consulate. She works closely with the Council in forming treaties in Alliance relationships with other races. Quite a prominent spokesperson for such treaties.” When they reached the office on the Presidium ten minutes later, Marik was surprised to see the diplomat pacing back and forth.

“You’re the C-Sec officers?” she asked as soon as the door bleeped open.

“Yes, m’am. Officer Absedeus Marik and my colleague Officer Pavra Antias,” Marik replied, taking out a stylus and a holopad. “The EMT’s are here?”

“A minute before you. Out back. I’m Anise Carter. I was working late when I heard a gunshot. I knew Erne was out back, getting a coffee. I heard him yell but the assailant had probably silenced him because I didn’t hear anything. I pressed security but no one arrived immediately like they should have.” He saw she had blood all over her face and her hands. He then spotted blood and bits of shattered glass on the grey-white woven carpet. Where did the glass come from? His eyes drifted round the room briefly as the woman continued to babble continuously. _Coffee table_. Carter still paced as she talked and gesticulated, but he could see she was obviously shaken.

“Ms. Carter, please sit down, you’re stunned from this. It’ll help,” said Pavra unwisely. Carter whipped her head round to stare at his younger counterpart.

“No I will not ‘sit down’!” she snapped, folding her arms. “God…I’m gonna have to notify my lawyer…”

“No one will be called until I have _every_ _single_ detail from this break-in and assault,” said Marik, his voice drowning out those of Carter’s. Carter straightened a little, the tendons in her neck becoming pronounced as she swallowed – he had known humans long enough to tell when their expressions showed complacence or fear.

“The figure was so fast I could barely react,” she began, taking in a huge breath. “They were obviously human – or asari, because they were definitely female. She was dressed head to toe in black and I could only see her eyes – she had a mask on. She grabbed me when I stood up, hit me in the face, broke my nose and threw me across the room, where I landed on the coffee table. While I struggled to get back up, I saw her at my terminal. She was extracting information – it took about two minutes.” Carter pointed a bloody finger at the remains of what was her computer.

“She broke my terminal. All my work just _gone_ …” Marik’s brow plates crossed together in concern as he noted the details down quickly on his pad. Carter decided to take Pavra’s offer of a seat. He quickly glanced at her back – covered in shards of glass and soaked with blood. She was wearing a long dress typical of Citadel fashion. “Only one EMT here?” he asked her, baffled she wasn’t being treated.

“No, two, but Erne went into cardiac arrest before they got here,” she told them.

“Ms. Carter I know you’re in shock but I need you to come with us to make a statement as soon as possible. After you are treated for your injuries of course,” began Marik. “I also need to know what work you have been conducting of late, events, important meetings, etc.”

“I’ll tell that to a higher official, thanks,” she said.

“I may be of a lower rank in C-Sec but I was a member of the military and an advisor to the Council,” he tried to say without anger. He saw she appeared somewhat mortified but her pride had won over and she said nothing further. He investigated the rest of the building, notably the entrance point of the perpetrator while the medics treated Carter’s injuries. His real concern was for the stolen information – this had turned from a simple break-in to a situation with potential political ramifications. While Carter returned home, they gathered what evidence they could find from the site of the crime.

Carter rejected offers of returning home to sleep – she wanted the statement over and done with immediately. She also rejected them calling her husband and said she’d call her sister instead. Marik was surprised by this – was there something she didn’t want her husband to know? He returned to the station, somewhat uneasy at the strange events. Nothing major (or even that interesting) had happened since he’d started working for C-Sec. He would have to question what possible information she had on there that would warrant a break-in and an assault. Less than an hour later, Anise and her sister turned up. Anise had changed into something more casual but her face was still ashen from the ordeal. Behind her was her sister. The face of this sister regarded Marik with at first indifference, but her face then morphed into one of slight disbelief in a matter of seconds. Westfahl.

“Marik?” she said, her eyes wide. Fate had once brought them together.

* * *

 

He kept professional, despite the now raging headache that thrummed behind his eyes. The statement recorder’s bright red light was making it worse.

“What kind of information was stored on your terminal?” he asked her. Carter’s face morphed into that of anger.

“I was told to give a statement,” she snapped. In response he stopped the recording quickly, irritably flicking the button off. “Surely this crime warrants a detective asking such questions and not an officer?”

“M’am, a statement is evidence that is used in court. This is vital to finding out the attacker’s motivation,” he tried.  
  
He knew she was right but he since he’d joined C-Sec he couldn’t help but probe further than his job title allowed – which left him not only with shame but frustration. Carter’s face was remarkably similar to that of her sister’s. Then again, Marik assumed that most humans looked the same, save for the colour of their hair or skin. They also had a remarkable range of body sizes – how did the skin stretch, shrink or become defined to accommodate such sizes? He didn’t press her further. Once finished with the statement, Carter had photographs and fingerprints taken by another specialist officer. Westfahl was still in the waiting room. He found himself making two hot drinks instead of one. When he re-entered the waiting room, he saw her slouched on one of the chairs, her chin in hand. She was wearing blue pants, a brown jacket and a cream scarf wrapped her neck. Her bushy hair was escaping the confines of its bun. 

“Funny how life seems to find a way for us to meet again,” he said, handing her the hot drink. To his surprise, she did not react as before, taking the cup of ‘tea’ and thanking him for it. She winced at the taste as she took a sip.

“Sorry. Standard turian built hot-drink machines are not great. Not for humans anyway.”

“Not surprising though, considering most of your force is turian,” she replied, with a friendly tone. There was a pause between them, and he took the seat next to her. They were still a respectable distance apart.

“Can you speculate much about the attack?” she asked.

“Not yet. But I think it will have some sort of political consequence. Your sister is an important diplomat in keeping good relations between races. The attacker stole information,” he said. Westfahl’s face looked deep in thought as she half-gazed at a mundane notice about the cleanliness of the toilets on the wall opposite.

“Have you heard?” she finally said, turning to look at him properly. It hadn’t escaped his attention that she had been avoiding his eyes since he’d stepped into the room.

“No. I’m attempting to keep a low profile. Fortunately people like them don’t like to frequent the Citadel very often. But one doesn’t, ah, quit a merc group so…”

“Quickly?” she finished for him. Perhaps, he thought, that being pleasant to one another was more difficult for her.

“I’m more worried about Jensen,” she continued. “He’s one for revenge.”

“C-Sec can provide protect-” He stopped himself. _What was he thinking?_ She smirked at him briefly, soon lost within a moment.

“I’m not planning to stay here for much longer. My Dad is sick and my youngest sister can’t look after him anymore.”

“Sorry to hear that,” said Marik, his voice sounding robotic to his ears. He was quiet a moment before speaking again.

“For a parent that disowned you…. Why do you feel forced to help him? Does he not have a carer or a doctor?” Her face contorted slightly.

“He’s my father,” she snapped. “He did have carers, but he’s a stubborn bastard and had them sacked eventually. Besides, I’m using it as an excuse mainly to get back to Earth.” Sometimes it felt like walking on ice with her – but maybe she had felt this with him when he’d still been with the bottle. With his head clearer he could see and notice things he hadn’t before. He realised only now that his previous treatment of her had been beyond reproach. That was, his treatment of her after the Incident. His feelings on the ‘war’ as the humans termed it were non-existent, and he’d made it absolutely sure they were to stay there.

“Are you moving back there?” he asked, trying to dispel the sudden poisoned air.

“I don’t know,” she replied, taking another sip of her drink. Carter eventually came back through, delivering him an icy stare. In an instant, he could see although they were siblings, they had nothing in common with each other. Westfahl paused stiffly at the door, glancing at him.

“Thanks…. and bye.” Carter, who was in front, looked impatient as she stood outside in the ward corridor folding and un-folding her arms.

“Take care,” he said, before he could think properly. She walked out without looking back. Marik began to file the report after he’d finished, when one of the more senior detectives walked in. One of his mandibles looked liked they had been broken once or twice, and he stood slightly slouched as if in pain.

“Marik,” he greeted. Even though he wasn’t, this senior detective liked to think he was in charge and of higher rank than Marik.

“Before you begin to dig deeper into a case that is beyond someone of your current rank…I’ll ask you to hand it over to me.”

“Doesn’t require a senior detective, this isn’t homicide,” Marik said testily. “I’m filing the reports and data. Surely that’s a menial task for someone of ‘your rank’.” The other turian’s eyes narrowed.

“You’ve been told _several_ times, Marik, not to go beyond your station. As this a more serious matter, I trust you to leave it in my hands. This is your final warning.”  With that, the detective turned away to leave the room. Marik’s fingers felt a peculiar ache as he paused them over the terminal’s touchpad. He caught his weary-looking face in the reflection of the screen that had now dimmed. _What am I doing here,_ his eyes seemed to say in his reflection. _Ten years ago you’d be horrified at the prospect of bending the rules, especially in a position such as C-Sec Officer._ He moved himself away from the desk, giving in to it just like he’d been doing for all his life.

 

* * *

 

The wards as usual were blustering with noise and bright light, but Laurel’s head was full of cell biology and genetics. It followed her all the way back to her tiny little apartment, the one she still rented after a year or so now. _Prokaryote and Eukaryote cells,_ she thought. _Structures of major organelle systems: the nucleus, the secretory vacuolar system, mitochondria…. I can’t get my head around this._ As she made a bowl of warming ramen, Laurel realised that perhaps trying to understand this sort of science was beyond her. Maybe she was trying _too_ hard – making up for all the lost time. The television blared the usual Citadel Ward news behind her; same shit different day. She spooned the contents into her ceramic bowl and curled up on the beanbag in front of the television. She watched the news about her sister, but her mind drifted back to the biology. _I’m not a scientist. I’m not the studying type._ During her years in prison she had taught herself how to become mindful, steady herself in the present moment. Yet curled on this beanbag she felt twenty instead of thirty-six. _You’re doing it for Mum. You’re doing it for the birds. You’re doing it because you want to go home._ But it felt hard to equate mitochondria with her mum’s laughing face and home.

Around two in the morning she heard a crash. Laurel propelled herself out of bed, heart racing. A figure was in the kitchen. She had nothing by her bed to defend herself. It must’ve taken quite a bit for the intruder to wake her up because half the apartment had already been trashed. The television broken and scattered into tiny shards on the floor. Her potted plants smashed, their soil already being trampled into the carpet. Her hand was too far from the kitchen to grab one of the knives. She didn’t see the rest of the mess, but tried to tackle the cloaked figure to the ground. They were definitely human, and too lithe to be a man. They struggled for various moments, Laurel attempting to press the woman to the ground, the woman trying to push Laurel off her waist.

“Who are you? Why’d you trash my place?” Laurel spat. The woman’s arms finally became free and pressed the pads of her thumbs into her offender’s eyes. Laurel screamed in shock, falling back slightly. This gave the intruder enough time to hit her hard around the face, and kick her to the floor. Before Laurel could get up, the intruder dealt her another couple of blows to the face and then the abdomen.

* * *

 

She had a witness, thank Christ. Not everyone was out to get her, which did surprise her a little. Laurel sat in the waiting room of the C-Sec station. Bright lights once more, but this time she didn’t ignore it. There was blood on the blue of her jeans and the pads of her hands. It was three-forty in the morning. She had called the police immediately after the break-in. She was told to come to the station straight away. In her shock she hadn’t thought to clean herself up. Her hands were shaking. _You used to live on Omega. You sold drugs. You nearly had a fight on the streets every day – in self-defense of course. What’s softened you? Girl the fuck up._ The door bleeped open and the turian she’d almost come to know so well walked through, his cowl looking like it had just scraped the top of the doorframe.

“Hey,” she croaked. “It’s my oh-so favourite turian.” _Sarcasm, at this time?_ His expression was extremely hard to read, more so than usual this time. Usually she interpreted it as cold disdain, superiority or bewilderment.

“Is there ever a normal day for you, Laurel Westfahl?” he said, coming closer towards her.

“No I just need excuses to get out,” she said, craning her neck to look up at him, squinting her eyes. His mandibles widened in what appeared to be amusement. They both fell silent. She could feel her entire body tremble.

“I can take a few details down. You don’t have to take the statement now. You should rest,” he said to her. “We have a sofa-bed out back.”

“That’s possibly the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” she replied, looking up at him again. His yellow eyes felt penetrating, wandering over the inches of skin on her face, occasionally moving to her mouth. That probably meant something different to turians, she thought.

“Do you want a drink? Change of clothes?” he said, ignoring her previous sarcasm. This made her uncomfortable.

“Stop being my mother,” she snapped, standing up. “I’ll do the damn statement, and return home.”  He held his talons up to stop her from storming off.

“It’s nearly four in the morning,” he assured her. Agitated she thrust her hands into her bushy hair and began pacing, feeling the weight of his presence unbearable.

“I’m returning home now. Fuck waiting around,” she said. Her voice was getting higher.

“Not safe at the moment. You’ll be disturbing the site of evidence as well,” he said, somewhat unhelpfully, watching as she paced like a lunatic.

“Fine,” she spat. “I’ll stay here until I can do the fucking statement. Then I’m going home. Hopefully I won’t have to see your foul turian face again.” He looked like he was offended by her comment – much to her astonishment – and walked back towards the door silently.

“Bathroom’s on the left,” he said while leaving, without looking back at her.

* * *

 

Marik spent the rest of his night shift tense and fed-up. He didn’t know whether she’d gone to clean up, but he knew she had at least stayed. He knew she was pathetic, but not stupid. If he’d still been with the alcohol, he would’ve had to seriously restrain himself and not feel the urge to hit her. It had come to his mind. The breadth and depth of human emotions were still unfamiliar to him, but in the time since he’d known her she’d become even more unreadable, and emotionally unstable. What was even more disconcerting was that he’d felt a stab of hurt at being so openly insulted. How hypocritical of her. The more he thought of it, the more the old feelings and hostilities returned.  
  
The more he wanted to have a drink. His racing thoughts at this point didn’t shock him, even if he was at work. Yet it was quiet. _Foul._ He’d shown courtesy and kindness to her recently. Why was she still so bitter towards him? Didn’t the bitch know that during a war things are different? That to him she’d killed half a dozen of his men? That _weight_ he’d had to carry on his shoulders for so long now. Because although it wasn’t his fault, it was simultaneously. It was about winning. Failure is not tolerated, not in a war. His eyes blurred as he stared at the screen. He’d ordered her torture but he’d never been the one to inflict it on her. Marik felt himself sweat. He’d been doing so well, yet all he wanted after these months of progress was a goddamn drink. _Her fault._ He shook his head, stood up and walked to the staff room to get a glass of cool water. _What am I thinking. Pull yourself together._

* * *

 

Westfahl looked tired the next morning, her clothes and hair ruffled. She’d taken off her rumpled scarf she’d worn yesterday to reveal a plaid shirt underneath her jacket. Marik hadn’t slept particularly well last night either, perhaps disturbed by his thoughts of returning to the bottle. He saw the skin under her eyes was a purple-blue. Much to his amazement, they’d already conducted an investigation. They’d found a tiny portion of evidence. Pavra stood by him when Laurel was asked to enter the main office.

“I’d advise against returning to your apartment, Ms. Westfahl,” Pavra began. “The person who broke into your home was the same who did so at the human embassy office the other night. We found a smidge of evidence – human blood – on the carpet of your sitting area.” Marik watched Laurel’s face carefully.

“I don’t believe it,” was all she said at first. “Why attack me?”

“There’s not much to go on at the moment unfortunately,” Marik said. “But the attack looks to be politically motivated. Do you know anything about your sister’s work?” Her face crumpled in what looked to be brief annoyance.

“I haven’t seen her for _years_ ,” she snapped. “I don’t know anything about what she does. Maybe you should question her husband?” Pavra stole a glance at him. _It’s like walking on ice with this human,_ her gaze seemed to say.

“We don’t have facilities adequate to house you for the time being,” she began. “I wouldn’t recommend applying to a shelter. Too many nasty incidents have happened to humans.”

“This is ridiculous,” Laurel said, running a hand through her coiled hair. “I don’t have _anything_ on me. I can’t afford a hotel at the moment, not when I’m saving for a flight off-world.”

“From your statement and your sister’s, the assailant attempted to kill you,” said Pavra. He could sense his associate becoming impatient. Being young and headstrong she was often prone to a short fuse. “I’d recommend a hotel, under C-Sec surveillance. It’s not safe to go back to your apartment.” Westfahl heaved a frustrated sigh, turning away and crossing her arms.

“We can send an officer with you to collect your belongings,” offered Pavra again. Marik held his hand up gently, trying to quell Pavra’s temper while Laurel’s back was turned.

“I’ll come with you,” said Marik to her back, making her turn around, face softened. “My apartment is also big enough – and safe. I have a spare room.” At this she stiffened considerably.

“I…” she began. Pavra cut her off.

“I’d take the offer,” she said. “It would save you money for your flight.” He noticed her skin at the base of her throat flushed a rather endearing shade of pink.

“Fine,” she snapped. He swallowed painfully. _What have I got myself into?_

* * *

 

Another officer went with her to collect her belongings, but she met him back at the station, a large duffel bag on her shoulder. Stiff as a pole, he greeted her somewhat awkwardly and they went in his skycar back to his apartment. She looked surprised at the fact he owned a skycar, but even more so that his home was in the Presidium. He made sure to keep quiet, trying not to regret his offer, trying not to curse the hospitable, gentleman side of him that ran in his family. She was astonished upon seeing his apartment, however.

“It’s huge,” she gaped as soon as they got in, him tossing his keys onto the sideboard.

“And well-furnished.” Walking ahead, he gestured to the stairs, his posture stiff once more.

“Washing room is upstairs, first left. The spare room is through here on the right,” he said. He lead her down a long, large corridor where at the end was a spacious kitchen. Leading her past the kitchen, he opened the door to a small, simple-looking room. Marik had felt confident at first, but he suddenly found himself feeling completely tongue-tied with her. He never had a human in his home before. Since he’d given up the bottle his mind was more rational – but in this moment he felt downright irrational. He saw her staring at the bed, shifting uncomfortably.

“You can use the cushions from the couch,” he said. “We, er, don’t use headrests as such-”

“I can see that,” she replied, still looking at the bed. “There’s a bloody hole at the top...and bottom.” Putting her duffel bag on the floor – in the middle of the doorway – she sat on the mattress, testing it.

“Not the squishy type,” she grinned a little, bouncing a bit. She seemed to stop herself quickly, almost horrified she was being friendly with him. “You know what I might use your couch instead.” He felt astonished. _The couch?_ Taking her bag again she walked back into the kitchen. It was open-plan, with the living area on the left-hand side. Huge windows looked out onto the beautiful green spaces of the Presidium. He saw her bag now on the couch.

“Being a general paid you well, huh,” she said, gazing at the view.

“I don’t spend much time here,” he admitted.

“Wow, I’ve lived in dumps and always spent time there. You must be mad not to.” There was a brief silence. He desperately felt like a drink, or _something._

“What do you eat? I have nothing here fit for human consumption,” he asked. She finally turned her gaze away from the view.

“I’m not eating with you,” she said. “That’s just…odd. I’ll go out.” He suddenly felt irritated with her hostility.

“I’m your _host_. In my culture, it is highly offensive to refuse such an offer,” he snapped. “Besides, I thought you were too broke. Otherwise you can just go to a hotel.” Laurel looked like she was holding back her next insult, but she bit her lip and looked away. A few minutes later, she tells him ‘pasta with tomato sauce’ or ramen, and he tapped it into his omni tool. He told her where the television was, and promptly left.

 


	29. Chapter 29

It was spartan, and didn’t have much of a personal touch to it. He said he was going out – probably to get her food, so she took a chance to wander. It felt strange, unnatural even, to be in his home although she was secretly glad he didn’t have much to garnish it with. There were no photographs, no decorations, nothing remotely warm or comfy about the place. It was an ice block. Even the armchairs and couch looked positively rock-hard. Laurel moved her bag back to the spare room, regretting she’d refused his offer of the spare room – for heaven’s sake she needed privacy! The view was incredible – perhaps the only thing she admired about his apartment. For years on end she’d lived in places with no windows – from prison to her dingy apartment on the Citadel Wards to Omega.  
  
The sky was quite unbelievably blue, but if she stared hard at it, she felt like she was home, if only briefly. Laurel found herself wandering upstairs, curious enough. She was desperately hoping he had a bathtub. One of the rooms was probably his bedroom – which she avoided. _Would it be as plain as everything else?_ Thankfully she found the bathroom – as spacious as everything else in the apartment. The bathtub wasn’t a tub, more like an inbuilt pool in the middle of the room but it was perfectly sized. She was rootling through his cupboards when she heard the front door downstairs open. Startled, she ended up banging her hand on the shelf she was searching through and knocked a glass jar to the floor.

“Shit,” she cursed, seeing the jar had broken into half a dozen fragments. “For fuck’s sake…Why does the bloody thing have to break into a bazillion pieces?” He was suddenly by the door.

“Your language hasn’t improved, has it?” Marik said, his mandibles spread wide, showing her that he was possibly amused. Laurel couldn’t help but shriek in response as soon as he’d spoken – he’d come up those stairs so silently.

“I’m s-sorry,” she muttered, trying to sweep up the remains of whatever she’d broken. He nodded his head towards the kitchen. _I feel like a goddamn schoolgirl,_ she thought.

“I will clean it up later. You need to see what I’ve got you for dinner.” His words made her wince with apprehension – this was a turian, who once had her tortured. A turian who was her enemy during the war…and she was now in his apartment after what seemed like a series of considerable coincidences. Why was life so intent on pulling her back towards him?

“Your choice seemed rather bland so I found something along the same lines but different,” he said when they went back down to the kitchen. “Stroganoff, but a variation of the original recipe as I found. This is with the pasta ‘tagliatelle’ and mushroom. Have you cooked this before?” Marik told her, as she looked at what was spread on the kitchen counters.

“I, um, no,” she said, speechless. He’d bought all the ingredients. _The garlic, the butter, the salt and pepper, the stock…._

“Do you like the ingredients?” he said. She didn’t fail to notice that he seemed in his element, having lost that previous awkwardness.

“Er, yes, it sounds delicious,” she stammered. He drew his gaze onto her properly this time.

“Are you being frank with me?” he asked her, his tone changing slightly. “Because I will not cook it if you will not eat it.”

“I just…I'm not much of a cook. I mostly eat take-out or go out to eat. Or if I do it’s frozen and not fresh.” He looked aghast at her comment.

“Maybe that will change,” he said, more softly this time, sensing her uneasiness.  
  
She fidgeted and faffed while he cooked their respective dinners, side by side on the large electric hob. Whatever he was cooking for himself smelt delicious. It mixed with the smells of her own cooking, so much that it had her drooling and feeling faint with hunger by the time he’d finished. She nearly moved to the couch to eat her dinner, but saw he’d set the table up. Laurel was so hungry she could forget her discomfort, although it was still unnerving to be sat opposite him while eating. She occasionally saw him look up to watch her eat – probably more interested to see her approval of his cooking – rather than watching how a human masticates. She knew she was unladylike – elbows on the table, stuffing her mouth full, her mouth occasionally open while chewing.

“Probably the best meal I’ve had in a while,” she said, her mouth full. She was just desperate to break the silence. His own food, the smell mixed with hers, smelt pleasant, but didn’t look very pleasant. She thought she saw a hint of a smirk on his face.

“You don’t have to lay it on thick,” he said.

“No, I mean it. I eat nothing but noodle soup or takeaway,” she smiled.

 

* * *

 

The first night she was restless, which was to be expected. In a turian’s apartment, in his spare room’s bed. The sheets, too thin for her liking, smelt strange and unwelcoming. Unlike her own place, his apartment was eerily quiet, the walls thick enough to block out the Citadel traffic. But then she remembered they were in the Presidium. It was also unbearably warm for her, and she’d soaked the bed’s sheets when she woke halfway through the night. She’d gone to bed before him, and hadn’t changed out of her cargo pants and camisole. What was she afraid of? She didn’t know. Even lighting the room and trying to read didn’t put her mind at rest. Laurel ended up in the living room, the television on mute. Some inane asari film. Usually if she failed to sleep, reading or drinking tea would help. She found herself pouring through his kitchen cupboards, coming away with nothing but envy. Just how did it make sense that he was exceptionally good at cooking? She’d even held off going to the bathroom until it became near unbearable.  
  
By the morning, he’d found her sprawled across the couch. Her eyes flickered open when she heard him creak across the floorboards, and nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw him holding a hot drink.

“Good morning,” he greeted her, taking a sip of his drink. There was dried drool on the side of her cheek and an ache behind her eyes.

“Hi,” she grumbled in reply, wiping sleep from her eyes roughly. While she attempted to wake herself up he placed a mug on the coffee table in front of where she sat.

“What is that?” she said upon seeing it. He settled himself down on the armchair opposite her. He was wearing some sort of dressing gown, and she could see the bare, defined muscles of his lower legs and part of his upper chest. His talons were also uncovered. She didn’t think she’d see this much of turian skin beforehand.

“You’re welcome,” he said, taking another sip of his drink. “And it’s tea. The leafy substance you humans like to drink copious amounts of.” This almost made her laugh.

“What are you drinking?” she asked him. He pondered for a moment.

“Something similar to your coffee. It wakes me up.” She pulled a tight little smile and sipped her tea, hoping it was awful. _Bloody delicious, like warm honey and ginger soothing my throat. Damn him._

“What do you usually do in the morning?” he asked her. She found this an odd question.

“Do? I....sleep - most of my shifts are late night.” A headache was beginning to develop in the crest of her skull, a tender, slow ache that threatened to turn into a migraine. She knew she probably looked awful; rings under her eyes, sweat-soaked clothes and hair probably the size of a raven’s nest.

“I normally buy the groceries in the morning before work,” he said to her. “Would you like breakfast?”

“I don’t normally have breakfast,” she admitted. Why was he so unnerving with his questions? Laurel had never seen or heard him this polite. He looked positively shocked at her response, however.

“If you are to work today you need breakfast,” he said, already taking out a frying pan. While he made her breakfast, she quickly showered. It felt strange to be stripping off and standing in his large shower cubicle, letting the hot water drizzle down her body. His towels were surprisingly fluffy and warm as she took one off the rack. Slipping on a fresh plaid shirt and cargo pants, she moved back downstairs to the smell of something glorious. Her hair was damp and wet the shoulders of her shirt, and the hot air of the apartment coupled with her earlier shower made her cheeks sing with heat.

“Protein scramble,” he said, putting her plate of food onto the island counter in his kitchen. It smelt incredible – and tasted even better.

“Thanks,” she said after she’d finished the meal. He gave her a small nod. He was dressed in his C-Sec uniform, the dressing gown now gone.

“I might call in sick to work today,” Laurel told him sheepishly when they had finished tidying in silence. She did this quite often, not feeling guilty about it in the slightest. Yet mentioning it in front of Marik made her feel cheap and foolish.

“A good idea. You do seem unwell,” he said, pausing in front of the entrance door. His tone was unreadable.

“When will it be safe to return to my apartment?” she asked. “I appreciate you offering me a night’s sleep here, but I don’t want to burden you. Besides, I’ve just…I’ve got other things to do.” Laurel avoided meeting his eyes during the last part of the sentence, feeling like she couldn’t. His yellow-eyed gaze had always seemed so penetrating, as if he could read her thoughts.

“You are _hardly_ a burden. As you can see the flat is spacious enough and I’ll be at work until this evening. It’s not advisable to return for another day or so.”  
  
His tone had been less friendly this time round. With that, he left without saying goodbye to her. She didn’t know what to make of him – or, indeed, this situation. After the shower and hearty breakfast, she did seem to feel better. It felt extremely strange to be in his apartment while he wasn’t there. She dived into her duffel bag to take out her studying but her mind wandered too far. She ended up investigating his house, fingering the various art displays on the wall (probably expensive) thinking it was the only decorative thing in the place. She daringly peered into his bedroom, feeling intrusive but unable to stop herself. His large bed took up most of the room, but the large windows faced onto the greenery of the Presidium.  
  
Laurel walked further, hoping to see some semblance of personality, but all she can see are the neat straight lines of the wall, his bed, and the neatly aligned sheets. A small data-pad was on his bedside table, but no mugs. No piles of clothes on the floor or pieces of paper littered, no hairdryers to trip you up or empty ready-meal packets to groan at. What she could see however, was a very lonely man. It seemed with his alcoholism gone and his job with C-Sec his life had recently picked up since the last time she saw him – perhaps the lack of alcohol explained his more pleasant manners. As lonely as she, with her ruined life, her lack of friends or family. The only friends she’d made had left or moved on. Her eyes moved back to his bed, thinking it was too large for just one person. Did he ever have somebody? Did turians marry? Whoever might’ve shared that bed was probably more put together than she could ever be.

 

* * *

 

Pavra had this annoying smirk that she wouldn’t get rid of all day.

“Fancy you inviting that snot-nosed human to your place. You cook her a meal?” Marik was sat at his desk, reading up on the human embassy break-in.

“Two meals, actually,” he replied, trying to keep any emotion out of his tone. “She admits she’s hopeless at cooking, and I one-hundred percent believe her.” Pavra sat on the desk next to him, which nearly made him shudder with disapproval. He did not like her soft, somewhat relaxed attitude in this place at the best of times. She peered at him inquisitively.

“Or you couldn’t wait to cook her that meal! You haven’t had a woman in…? How long now?” Pavra teased him. He had to give her some credit. Unlike everyone else, she wasn’t deterred by his title, rank or stern nature.

“A long time,” he finished for her. “But this isn’t a woman, this is a human, Pavra.” He tried typing up additional notes for the case, desperately hoping his partner would eventually leave him be today.

“A human woman, Marik! I’m surprised, to be honest. It was no secret that you, like most of the others up high, hated humans.”

“It was our business to be wary and distrustful of humans, and it would do you well to keep it up. Especially since organisations like Cerberus have begun to rear their ugly heads,” he snapped, becoming irritable now. Pavra was headstrong, but she was also young and unformed. Being pleasant enough to humans was fine, but to be overly friendly? To enter, as she was implying, a relationship was utterly unthinkable. Not to mention disgraceful.

“I don’t think you believe that anymore,” Pavra said, getting up from the desk. She left the room before he could retort. When the day ended, he felt the usual ache at the back of his cowl and in his joints. Stern years of military training, as well as war, had worn him significantly. Engrossed in his thoughts as he walked up to his skycar, he didn’t notice a figure approach him.

“General Marik, sir.” Marik nearly jumped. Judging by his uniform, it looked like this turian was a member of the military, nearly as high as he’d been. The turian saluted him, much to his surprise.

“What brings you here, Commander-?”

“Isarian, sir. A military dinner. You have been formally invited.” Marik couldn’t help but inwardly sigh. It had been a long time since he’d been to one of these, but back in the day they were as stiff, boring and drab each rare time he’d been to one. Turians were not one for frivolous celebration, especially military at that, but when they did happen it was an offence to refuse such an invitation. These events were also either overdone or underdone. Marik looked at the invitation on his omni-tool after Isarian had left. Next week. An opera. _Great._ He’d have to rent formal wear for this.

* * *

 

She was curled up on his armchair, faced away from him when he got home. This surprised him; he presumed she would be out doing something in order to avoid him. The apartment felt cold to him – she must’ve found someway to turn the heating off. _How…devious of her._ Humans weren’t tall like turians but they were tall enough, and he found it somewhat fascinating she could curl her legs under her like that all on one chair. She had a large sweater on, one that covered her hands as she was holding something large, rectangular and heavy looking in her hands. He saw illustrations, of a species he presumed might be native to Earth. Such illustrations with their careful lines and swirling patterns of colour and delicacy; _how talented these humans can be._ He couldn’t imagine humans creating such painstaking work with their own hands, not without the use of a machine at least. These creatures had large, spread and fingered wings.

“Good evening,” he said. She flinched, having not heard him come in.

“Oh, er, hi,” she replied, slapping her tome shut.

“I thought you’d be out,” he said. “I understand you study?” Her large eyes were wide and somewhat thoughtful as she gazed at him.  

“How’d you know I was studying?” she queried. He paused and moved to make a drink, indicating whether she’d like one too. Her nod was small.

“Your C-Sec record,” he replied, pouring the drinks out and handing one glass to her. He nearly cringed with this comment - it made him sound nosy. 

“Oh, yeah. I don’t know if I’m gonna…continue with it,” she said, somewhat sheepishly. He felt surprised.

“Why?” he asked. Laurel paused for a moment, looking upwards in thought. It looked like she was trying to find the right words.

“It’s not…. Well, it’s not me,” she stated.

“You’re struggling with the work?”

“Yes, and no. It’s…I don’t know how to explain it to you, it’s complicated.” He perhaps thought that maybe it was, or maybe she was touching on something painful and didn’t want to talk about it. She took a sip of the tea he made for her and closed her eyes.

“I want to work…as a scientist back on Earth,” she told him. Perhaps the warm tea changed her mind. She looked so comfortable in his armchair, with her legs curled up under her. Her coiled hair had grown since he’d last seen her, reaching her shoulders.

“You don’t have the qualifications?” He moved to sit down opposite her on the couch. “I thought as a tech in the Alliance you’d have certain qualifications.”

“Engineering? God no. Biology is what I’m learning,” she said, pulling her lips into a smile. He’d realised as he watched her that she’d hardly ever smiled – not in front of him anyway.

“I see,” he said. “So you don’t have aspirations to become a doctor?”

“No,” Laurel replied. “I want to be an ornithologist.” He didn’t know the term and she seemed keen to explain anyway.

“I’m studying animal biology. Ornithology is a branch of zoology that studies birds.”

“The species in your illustrated book?” he said, pointing to the heavy tome on her lap, meeting her sudden concentrated gaze.

“Actually, your own species have a lot in common with the avian species on Earth. It’s like your species had the dinosaurs, but instead of adapting into modern birds the archaeopteryx morphed into the turian,” she said, sudden excitement in her voice. This made him feel immediately uncomfortable, but he kept his mouth shut as she kept babbling on.

“The archaeopteryx, a fossil, is defined as the missing link between the dinosaurs and birds. Instead of feathers, due to your atmosphere you developed a hard carapace….” Her cheeks and neck had swollen to a gammon colour as she talked. His aggravation came out of nowhere.

“It’s not very _pleasant_ to be compared with non-sentient species from your planet,” he remarked, cutting her off. Laurel stopped gesticulating with her hands. If anything, her cheeks became pinker and her eyes wider.

“I wasn’t, I-”

“Charming as your enthusiasm is,” he said while getting up, leaving his hot drink. “You know nothing about our species. Much as I know nothing of yours.”

She looked decidedly affronted.

“Marik, I was making observations. Surely knowing about each other is a good thing.” She had got up too, obviously not comfortable with him towering over her seat.

“No, it isn’t,” he snapped. She folded her arms and looked at the floor, embarrassed.

“They are not ‘dumb’, not even in the slightest. They are considered to be very intelligent,” she said. 

“Intelligent? Compared to what? What you humans define as ‘intelligent’ through your carefully aligned categories?”

“You’re unbelievable,” she said. “I’m _trying_ to get along with you. Yet it’s so obvious you still hate humans. Why did you invite me into your house then?” He hadn’t noticed how close they were standing.

“Your species have a fatal flaw. And that is arrogance. What do you hope to gain by studying these creatures?”

“A life,” she said. “I want to reclaim what I’ve lost. To help conserve these species on my home planet. Where humans, by the way, are doing a grand job of wrecking the planet. You know how many species we’ve wiped out over the last hundred years? Over _ten thousand_. That might not seem much, but to me, it’s far more important than trying to establish something in the galaxy.”  
  
This didn’t provoke a further reaction from him. He saw her large, blue-grey eyes fill with those pathetic human tears as she turned away from him sharply. Laurel left the tea and book and grabbed a small bag by the front door. Swinging it onto her shoulder, she promptly left. Marik continued to stand there, trying not to feel shame. He felt right at first. She was just as entitled as the rest of those humans. He wouldn’t be her test subject in her studies.

* * *

 

If Laurel had returned that night, it must’ve been well after he’d gone to bed. When he woke the next morning, she was probably still in the spare room. She did work night shifts, after all. He felt no need to check, even if she’d spent the whole night elsewhere. By the time he arrived at work, her sister Anise Carter was there in the waiting room. Her face was pinched and the long formal dress she wore made her skin look pale and washed out. Her hair was pulled tight behind her head.

“Carter,” he said, upon entering the station. She stood up immediately.

“Has the report been filed? I heard my sister has also suffered a break-in and assault.”

“Your report has, I can transfer a copy to your omni-tool. As for your sister, we’re still gathering witness information,” he replied, taking out his pass card and swiping it through the machine. He held the door open and motioned her in first. It didn’t take long for him to transfer the report to her omni-tool, but he was slightly perplexed by her presence.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I want you on this case. I want you to investigate it,” she asserted. “The same for my sister.”

“You were told to wait for further information on the investigation,” he said tersely, already irritable. “You want to talk to the detective branch, then you’ll need the C-Sec CI Department. I’m not part of that branch. I can give you the address, it’s not far from here-”

“Won’t be necessary,” she interrupted. “You seem the only competent officer around here. The Alliance are no help, and your guys at the CID are useless.” Her self-important entitlement made him wonder how she got to such a prominent position.

“There’s not much we can go on at the moment. It would help the case if you stated what it was that the assailant _stole_ , however,” was his reply.  An uncomfortable look fell over her face and she folded her arms.

“It’s…it’s information that could harm my reputation, but also the…” His gaze hardened as he stood there unwavering. This didn’t affect her, however, and she swallowed her words.

“It seems there’s a lot you haven’t told us,” he said. “If and when you decide to do so, contact the CID. Despite your accusations, their case completion rate is currently ninety-eight percent. We won’t be able to prosecute unless there is enough sufficient evidence.”

“I’m aware of that,” she said. “I want the attacker caught, and I want the information back. Have the samples from the lab come back yet?” He shook his head.

“We will call you when we need you, Ms. Carter,” was all he told her before he motioned her out the door. There was something about the meeting that rattled him slightly. Were the two break-ins and assaults connected between the sisters? Anise Carter was hiding something.

* * *

 

It was evening number four inside Marik’s apartment. She had a couple of hours before her night shift started, yet all her work was spread out around her in the spare room. She lacked the energy for this night’s shift, even though it was shift three out of seven. Laurel had made it a priority to avoid Marik since their small disagreement, mostly because he’d deeply upset her, more so than she liked. Beforehand, all he’d done was invoke past trauma and sincere anger, but what felt like accusation of her studies, her precious goals, was now personal. How could he turn from pleasant one minute to cruel the next?  
  
_You’re the same,_ the alternate voice and the devil’s advocate spoke in the back of her mind. She’d hardly presented him with any sort of friendliness. He’d been at work an extra couple of hours, perhaps in the hope he’d avoid her. Stupidly, she hadn’t made any dinner and her stomach twisted with hunger. There was no point in studying, not now the words were blurring into each other on the pages, her eyes drooping. The night shifts if anything were good at first, they catered to her night owl tendencies. They helped with the news about her mum; she was busy at night and slept until she woke up to eat before heading out again. Now that the job felt more difficult as the days went by, her mind went to wander again. She fingered a hand through her messy hair, struggling to pull her fingers through the damned curls. The front door sounded, making her freeze.

“Come on, Laurel,” she muttered to herself. She wasn’t going to hide in this room like a stubborn teenager.  
  
If he was going to ignore her, then fine. At least they’d be even. When the door bleeped open, she saw he was already in the kitchen making something. It smelt delicious, although she wasn’t sure if it was of human or turian origin. He was still in his C-Sec uniform without the top half of the armour. It was a contrasting blue and black against his mushroom-brown plated skin. The black long-sleeved top that the officers wore underneath their armour was certainly slim-fitting, she thought. The more she looked at parts of his body, the more she could see the slight avian similarities. Laurel could see the defined hood of his carapace, weaved strength of his arm muscles and the ribbed nodules where upper and lower arms met.

“Hi,” she tried.

“Hello. Have you eaten?” he asked, without turning round. Steam from the hobs rose and puffed round his head.

“No, but you don’t have to go out to get something. I’ll probably get something on the way to work.” He was silent as she shook the pan where the food sizzled loudly beneath him. She moved closer, not sure why she was doing it, towards the counter to try to see what he was cooking. He briefly glanced up at her when she did get closer, but he seemed unreadable.

“Your sister approached me at work,” he said, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on the food. Laurel braced herself for perhaps another quarrel.  
“There is something she is not telling us. Withholding information can be an offence in certain circumstances, but it’s certainly not helping the investigation. She will not tell us what the information was that the assailant stole, and why. We cannot go much further without knowing what the motivation was for the attack. There was no trace of the assailant at her office. Do you know anything about your sister?”  
  
Laurel shrugged.

“I honestly can’t tell you," she replied. "We haven’t been close since we lived with our parents, back when we were teens. She didn’t talk to me after my sentence. Had nothing to do with me for years, until recently. I didn’t even know she was married. Ian Carter or someone who works in shipping? I find it odd that she would withhold information. All I know now is that she’s got a massive pole wedged up her arse, so high it’s sticking out her mouth.” She saw his mandibles twitch, ever so slightly. He quickly served up the dinner, one plate for her.

“You’re not having anything?” she asked, surprised. He shook his head in silence, but guided her to the table all the same. His formality never failed to shock her.

“I’m sorry for how I acted the other night. It was unacceptably rude,” he said when she’d stuffed four or five bites into her ravenous mouth. Seafood ramen and _Christ_ it was about the most delicious fucking thing she’d ever eaten. _Sea bass and mussels in a spicy broth with noodles…._ Her cheeks ached with the taste of it. He must have prepared this before, seeing as he’d whipped it up in no time at all.

“I’m sorry too,” she replied. Marik looked perturbed.

“For what?”

“For that time in the police station…you’d been so polite and I reacted badly. There was a reason for that, though.” She had a burning at the back of her eyes. She had to stop before the dam opened and the waters flowed through uncontrollably.

“There is much that I need to be sorry for…” he murmured.

“Pardon?” He looked away from her. His voice had been so quiet she hadn’t heard him properly.  

“How is your dinner?” he said instead.

“It’s probably the most enjoyable meal I’ve ever had,” she smiled. The serious gaze in his mostly impassive face gave way to brief, untold intensity. He said nothing in return, but continued to watch her carefully. A familiar heat began spreading up her neck towards her jaw. She couldn’t bear being watched while eating a somewhat messy meal with the broth dribbling down her chin. It was those eyes of his, the small yellow orbs amongst a sea of black that made up his outer eye socket. There was a question that had been burning on the tip of her tongue.

“Why’d you ask me to stay here?” she blurted. “We…it was bad on Illium. I’m not gonna deny I acted hostile towards you.” She heard his intake of breath. _Am I just a petulant child to him?_

“Laurel,” he began, making her pause. “I don’t want to reflect on the past. I used to do that when I was still drinking and…it never helped me.”

“You’re somehow always helping me…you stitched my hand up,” Laurel continued, holding out her hand. There was a butterfly pattern of stitches on the inside of her palm. His eyes widened in surprise, looking as if he was holding the urge to touch her hand and see it closer.

“It didn’t heal?” He was aghast.

“It did,” she confirmed. “But human skin tends to scar like this. Especially if the injury was severe.” She saw his eyes stay on her hands as she held her chopsticks.

“Your fingers…why didn’t they heal?” Swallowing painfully, she set her gaze straight on him.

“I…I was in that cell for a long time. Your soldiers broke most of my fingers…bones need to be aligned correctly so they don’t heal crookedly.” She looked back down at her food and continued to eat silently.

“Why didn’t the Alliance medics re-align them?” he asked.

“They’d already partly healed by the time they got to me. I was arrested so quickly…the doctors weren’t too interested in mending them properly and I wasn’t their best patient anyway. I put up a lot of fuss. Probably because I knew I was going to prison…for the rest of my life!” The plates at the top of his brow drew together like a frown, his hooded eyes suddenly looking much sharper and smaller.

“They mistreated you?” he said.

“No,” she was quick to answer. “I was vilified beyond reason though, I had the media to thank for that. The war had been bloody and short, but people afterwards thought me a terrorist. And who could blame ‘em? I _apparently_ killed hundreds of turians and my own crew.”

“Your own crew?” he asked, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. Laurel nodded, spooning in the last mouthful of broth. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, knowing this unnerved him. Clearly her parents hadn’t taught her good table manners, or perhaps she’d knowingly forgotten them. She drew in a large breath.  _Be careful what you tell him Westfahl,_ the stern voice said at the back of her head. 

“We were all tech professionals," she began. "The Alliance earlier in the war had...sent out several probes armed with nuclear fusion warheads, to prevent insights into the technology. As the war was beginning to take a turn, the Alliance wanted them defused. They sent a team of four of us, Jensen being the superior." 

His expression at this moment was unreadable, but her heart thumped anyway. She began to feel like she was back in that bombed-out police station on Shanxi again. Fear overpowered her and she cut her story short. 

"Jensen had been the one responsible," she said. "He incriminated me, made sure all the evidence pointed towards me. I still don't remember the events leading up to this day." 

It didn’t fill her with anger like it used to, it now just left an unspeakable sadness in her. It had wrecked her life and it could’ve been easily avoided, or at least partially. Marik had torn his gaze from her, looking deeply into some corner of the room.

“It was unfortunate that you met Jensen again on Illium,” he said. For some reason he couldn’t quite look at her in the eye now. They were both quiet for a few minutes, deep in thought.

“How were you convicted?” he asked.  

“I’d pleaded not guilty, but every single piece of evidence went against me. The jury decided that I was guilty,” she replied, without emotion in her voice. “The black box, of course, was gone from the ship. Jensen blamed me for its disappearance. The defence obviously used that as a biggie in their case, but it didn’t fall through. Not to the jury. Not to the judge.”

“Untrained civilians to give a verdict on a stranger based on what is said in that court….Perhaps I can understand it now but at times I find the human criminal justice system unusual.”

He shifted in his seat, and she knew this had made him awkward.

“I served the time but it’s ruined my life. It’s all well and good having goals but I’ve got a fat black marker on my professional record. That’s why I ended up on Omega, they accepted someone like me,” she spat out.

“And your family?”

“Didn’t support me but that was to be expected. My father was high in the military and my step-mum was his equal in every sense of the word. My sisters just followed him and Emma like lost puppies.” She saw his facial expression change. This one she could read now; confusion.

“Step. Mum?” he repeated the word disjointedly. She nearly smiled. 

“Not my biological mum,” she replied, pursing her lips.

“What about your real mother, then?” Laurel looked away from him again and felt that phantom pain in her chest.

“Um…she supported me wholeheartedly. But that was to be expected. She was my best friend.”

“Was?” he asked. _Goddamn him_ , her mind cried. She pushed the palms of her hands into her eyes to stop that familiar burning.

“She died two years ago, Anise told me.” She pressed her tongue into the roof of her mouth, anything to make the burning behind her eyes and the tensing of her jaw stop.

“ _K_ _wondae,”_ she heard him say what felt like minutes and minutes later. She frowned in response, not understanding.

“Did that not translate?” he asked her. She shook her head in reply.

“It…er…it’s hard to explain. It’s a non-patronising way to express turian sympathies for loss. It is…derived from an ancient word.”

“What ancient word?” she asked, curious and quite frankly, humbled.

“Again…difficult to explain and might get lost in translation,” was his reply. Laurel was now uncomfortable in a way she hadn’t felt around him before. Her body felt warm, too warm, now that she’d exposed her vulnerable self to his gaze. She immediately felt embarrassed, now that she’d told him such a personal thing, in such close detail. Laurel stood up, taking the bowl she’d eaten from.

“Thanks for the dinner,” she said, walking quickly towards the kitchen.

“Laurel…” he began, getting up after her. She tried to ignore him, putting her dirty utensils in the washer. _Please don’t make me feel like this,_ she thought. She was beyond relieved he hadn't pushed the matter of the bomb and his dead crew. 

“Laurel, please,” he said quietly. Tears slipped out of her eyes as she slowly loaded the washer. 

“Look, I’ve got things to do and C-Sec must’ve finished in my place by now-”

“I don’t want you staying there,” he said. She lifted herself back up, frowning at him, despite the tears on her face.

“What, you just gonna hold me here?” she said mockingly. “I can’t eat you out of house and home.” 

“Er, I didn’t…I meant-I think it’s still not safe.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just…I just have a gut feeling,” he said sheepishly. She wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. She didn’t say much else, loading the rest of the dishes away and walked silently back to her room. An hour later, she started her usual night shift. His apartment, once more, felt lonely again.

 


	30. Chapter 30

He couldn’t deny that having someone, let alone a woman, share his apartment was pleasant. More than pleasant, especially as he could cook for someone. Being in the military he didn’t have such opportunities. She’d stayed for longer than he thought, despite her protests. She would leave soon, he knew that much, but something was keeping him from urging her to return home. He hadn’t lied knowing that the attack on both her and her sister was cause for serious concern. Yet he couldn’t shed the desire for her to stay. Pavra couldn’t stop her teasing, and by now his neighbours began to notice that he had extra company. Most of them didn’t bat an eyelid, although a couple of elder turians’ mandibles twitched in disapproval. He’d been moved by her story, more than he’d anticipated.  
  
_Am I beginning to like this human?_ His younger self would’ve been disturbed. Everyone in his family would’ve been horrified if they knew he allowed a human to stay in his home. Working at C-Sec had kept him going since he'd ‘stepped down’ from the military, and especially since he had given up drinking for good. Yet he had to be stupid not to acknowledge he'd looked forward to returning home. Once upon a time, he dreaded going home to his lonely apartment, being a workaholic and unattached to anyone. He’d kept himself that way for a long time – most of his adult life. He still kept his journal, and when she was out doing her night shifts, he took the opportunity to record.

_I’m amazed she decided to tell me her side of the story – she’d been framed for her superior’s crimes and sent to prison with a unanimous verdict. I still remember my thoughts at that time - distraught at the loss of three hundred of my own soldiers. The blame, inevitably, had fallen on me. No matter what the situation was, I was in command of those men, and they had died under my command. It was accountability that shone in the eyes of my own superiors, I could not handle._

_I feel anger at the thought of Stefan Jensen framing Westfahl – but I feel guilt more so. I’d taken my anger and despair out on her. I thought her pathetic yet foolishly brave simultaneously. This combination only heightened the wrath I wanted to wield on her species. Yet despite this new liaison I find myself wondering what kind of person she really is under that pain of a broken life._

Pavra wouldn’t stop her teasing, and he felt himself losing his patience with her. Especially since she’d do it unabashedly in front of other turians, who drew stern expressions at her jubilant teasing. She was making him look bad in front of the other officers and he didn’t want his reputation tainted even more so than it already was.

“I can tell you’re thinking of her,” the young officer would tell him at lunchtimes. As much as he’d tell her off and try to keep her in line, Pavra was charming and humorous to be around.

“How can you possibly believe that?” he replied, taking several items of food from the buffet counter as they both slid their trays along.

“Marik, I’ve known you for a while now… it hasn’t escaped my notice that you’re distracted,” she replied beaming, cheerful as ever.

“Stop it, Pavra,” he chided her, but his tone wasn’t strong enough to make her back off. They moved towards the table to eat their lunch.

“Were you ever married?” Pavra continued.

“That’s enough,” he snapped.

“It’s a simple question,” she said.

“And my answer is simple – none of your business,” he replied waspishly.  
  
She stared at him silently for a few moments while he ate. When she realised he wasn’t going to elaborate or even talk anymore, she promptly ate her lunch. Yet he realised, later that afternoon, Pavra was poking at something that he preferred not to think about. He wondered if she’d be curled up on his armchair when he’d get home. After driving to the market and picking up a few groceries, his heart sank somewhat when he saw she wasn’t on the armchair. He felt a familiar sense of melancholy, one that had often plagued him throughout his life – a feeling that had propelled him towards Reynor. Marik walked towards the spare room where she had stayed, but found that the room was empty, the sheets crinkled from her presence. _Perhaps I pushed her too far._ He stretched out a talon to grab the sheet, thinking to wash it straight away but all he did was press his face to it. He could smell her; a powdery, sweaty smell and one of washed clothes and past perfume.  
  
He jerked it away from his face sharply, seemingly disturbed with his own actions. _She's a human._ He snatched the sheets, bundled them up and shoved them into the washer as hard as he could. He was pissed off she’d left without saying goodbye, without even giving him a thank-you for his kindness. He’d put a lot of effort in finding out how to cook human food, despite the fact that he could’ve taken a risk and let her try his own. He’d given her a safe place to stay, although he could’ve told her to find a hotel until they were done with her apartment. He could’ve let her stay out on the streets – she was a dirty human criminal…. Marik spent the next hour cleaning the house furiously, to get rid of her scent. She seemed to be everywhere. He found curly hairs on the shower room’s floor and on the floor in the spare room. There were some stuck to the cushions on his sofa.

 _Goddamn her,_ he thought. _I need a drink._

* * *

 

“You’re not staying there anymore, are you?” Anise asked to her elder sister as they sat at a bar. Laurel had actually made an effort, Anise thought, glancing at the slim trousers and halter-neck top, which showed off her sister’s slender shoulders and tattoo on her upper back.

“No,” was the reply. Laurel took a long sip of her beer as if in thought.

“Can’t imagine it was very…. well, I imagine it’d be uncomfortable,” Anise continued.

“It was a bit… considering turians and humans don’t like each other very much yet,” said Laurel.

Anise looked down at her drink, playing with the glass. She hadn’t drunk very much of it, but the evidence was there. A tender pink lip print on the outside. Laurel wondered why her sister had bothered to invite her out for a drink. A lot of the conversation had been initiated by Anise, and Laurel, tired from her previous shift barely had the energy to talk to her. She’d been tempted by the drink. It was obvious to her now that the Anise she’d known all those years ago had been and gone.

“You heard anything from Fern and Dad? Is Emma still with them?” asked Laurel. Anise shook her head.

“Emma left Dad a few years ago. Have you given any more thought to going back home?”

“No I haven’t,” said Laurel. “You say you want me to come home but it looks like _you’re_ going anywhere but home. You’re an important diplomat… why would you go home?” Anise’s lips pursed.

“I’m _trying_ with you, Laurel,” she said, her eyes sharp. “You make it so difficult. I won’t be staying on Earth but I’ll come with you when you decide to go down – which should be sooner rather than later.” Laurel felt the same blood-boiling fury that she’d often felt when thinking about her family over the last few years.

“Sorry if I don’t _immediately_ jump on the next flight,” she snapped. “After dad cast me out and never turned up to support me, doesn’t make me exactly a loving, doting daughter.”

“What astounds me,” said Anise ignoring Laurel, standing up out of her seat. “Is that you’ve barely changed since you buggered off when seventeen. Dad was upset by your behaviour – everyone was. Emma only tried to help you. But all you were interested in was having if off with every boy in the neighbourhood while snorting coke. When Rachel told us you were in the Alliance we couldn’t believe it.”

“You barely know me,” said Laurel, facing her sister with hatred written on her face. Her teeth were gritted. “You know sod-all about what I’ve gone through in the last decade-”

“Oh tell the story to someone who cares, Laurel! It doesn’t ultimately matter _what_ Dad did or said back then. The fact that your father is terminally ill without proper care is the fact here and now. To not return home would be completely self-centred – Fern and I have looked after Dad for years. Emma too. But you’re like Rachel-”

“ _Rachel_? Since when have you started calling Mum ‘Rachel’?” said Laurel. Yet she knew Anise was doing this to spite her.

“Since I realised Emma was more of a mum than Rachel. Dad said you always had too much of her in you – probably why you both ran away.”

“No, Mum ran away because Dad was an arsehole who was awful to her and us. He was a strict military man with a pole shoved right up his-”

“Dad is dying!” shouted Anise. “Don’t you _dare_ talk about him like that!” Laurel, completely incensed, stood up to face her taller sister and punched her right on the nose. Anise was propelled back onto the checked floor of the nightclub. Crying with pain, she held her nose staunching the flow of blood. Laurel rubbed her hand, which seared with sudden pain. She hadn’t punched anyone in a good, long time. _That felt good._

“What’s wrong with you?!” stammered Anise, blood dribbling onto the pristine (probably expensive) dress. A turian and human security guard approached them both.

“Get out,” one of them threatened Laurel. The other bent down to Anise, who was fussing over her nose and dress, asking if she wanted a medic. She heard ‘C-Sec’ mentioned, and was stopped by the security guard.

“Thought you wanted to chuck me out,” she mumbled.

“Lady asked for C-Sec,” shrugged the guard.

Onlookers were huddled at the bar to watch the proceedings, giving them drama for their night. Anise’s bloody nose looked pink and swollen. Laurel clutched her aching hand as she sat on the stool ignoring her sister. She felt if she looked at her she might be tempted to punch her again and break something else. A tall familiar-looking turian showed up – Marik was the officer for the evening shift. As he took the details of Anise’s statement, he passed her surreptitious glances. She couldn’t help but smirk at his glances. If anything, he looked like he was trying not to smirk. She gave him her details; he gathered witness information and a medic was called. Laurel barely passed her a glance, or anyone else for that matter. She suspected that her sister would probably press charges – and her criminal record was already blackened at best. A tall figure moved into her view, breaking her thoughts.

“Down the station, is it?” she said to Marik tiredly.

“What about a drink and ice-pack at my place?” he said instead. She felt uneasy as he looked at her inflexibly. She saw his small eyes drift over her form.

“I….er-”

“Your hand looks broken,” he said softly.

“Aren’t you at work?” she asked him. It was around ten at night.

“Finish in an hour or so,” he said to her. “You know where my apartment is.”

“I’ll probably need to see a doctor about the broken hand, Marik,” she said, slipping off her seat, cradling her hand now knowing it was broken.

“You forget I once was a doctor,” he said, stepping closer to her. He gently took her hand in his, nearly making her jump back. “I mended your hand once, I can do it again.” Perturbed, she quickly took her hand back but nodded. She felt he was the only one she could confide in at this possible moment. Their previous meeting she’d forgotten about. In the hour waiting for him to finish she had her hand x-rayed, splinted and ice-packed and was waiting on his sofa by the time he’d finished and returned.

“No broken bones, but strained muscles,” she said as soon as he came in. He saw the splint on her hand. She had it propped up on an ice pack from the hospital. The entire hand had swollen pink. He was quiet as he took off his armour.

“Funny really, I thought I’d break my fingers again – seeing as they’ve been broken…” she stopped herself. She felt a heat come to her cheeks realising her mistake. He was in his black undersuit as he went to pour a couple of drinks for them both and walked back seemingly unfazed. He handed her something strong smelling and foreign, but not altogether unpleasant. Her cheeks still felt hot and her sudden relaxed pose on the sofa stiffened her muscles even more so. Thankfully, he took the armchair opposite her. He rolled the glass between his talons, as if deep in thought.

“She might press charges,” he said, as if trying to find anything to say.

“Fuck her,” was Laurel’s reply. His mandibles moved a little, as if he was quelling a laugh.

“Your language is still awful,” he said. He seemed to be working up the courage to say something, but after a while he leaned back in the chair. 

“What made you punch her?” he said. Laurel took a sip of the drink – it was sharp, tangy, and warmed each and every fibre of her body like she’d never felt before.

“She insulted Mum,” she replied, twisting round from her previous angle to face him. “When I was ten Mum decided to leave Dad. Up and left. No one forgave her but me. Both him and Anise refused to see her but me and Fern kept in contact. She was the one who introduced me to my love of birds. She was a big lover of nature, although she worked in fashion. Soon gave it up years later to go travelling….” She drifted off, her eyes glazed with a fine sheen.

“Sounds like you were very close to her,” was his reply, his voice so low it made the hairs on her arms stand up. It started to feel too close, too personal. She hadn’t talked about this with anyone, and she sure wasn’t going to get into it with Marik of all people.

“What about you?” she said suddenly, directing the conversation towards him. She realised she didn’t know much about him at all. He seemed surprised with her comment.

“As normal as any other turian family. Entered boot camp when I was fifteen. Father was also a general and mother was an engineer that worked in water supply.” His voice seemed distant and cold now that he was talking about himself. With the strong alcohol in her, Laurel felt a sense of reckless impulsiveness.

“You _have_ to go to ‘boot camp?’” she asked.

“Yes,” was his terse reply. “The military is at the heart of our society. We’re not individualistic like yours. A lot of your culture is centred on the self, which in part can be attributed to economic influences such as your capitalism.” _Well, I can’t disagree with him there._ She suspected he was trying to throw her off, but it didn’t escape her attention that he became cantankerous quite quickly.

“You weren’t close with them?” she said to him, pushing him further.

“No, I wasn’t,” he said, stiff now. The glass in his hand remained still, the alcohol un-drunk.

“Did you leave home permanently when you went to boot camp?” she said again. He gave a sharp nod. His talons clutching his glass curled tighter round his glass.

“You talk about your parents in the past tense,” she tried again.

“They’re dead,” he said without emotion in his voice. It was an awkward five minutes, as they both sipped their drinks. There was a question that had been burning in her mind for a while now.

“Why aren’t you with the military anymore and working in some dead-end C-Sec job?”

“I don’t want to talk about my past,” he snapped aggressively, making her jump. She’d gone too far. Still smarting from her previous altercation with Anise, Laurel calmly put the glass on his coffee table and stood up, walking towards the door. She could hear him get up, making her prickle at his quick movements behind her. She could barely hear him call her name, as her ears weren’t adapted to hear the lower frequencies of his voice. She could certainly sense he was trying to stop her.

“Look, it’s obvious we can’t overcome our differences,” she said, pressing the front door’s controls hurriedly.  

“You were deliberately provoking me and you knew it,” he said behind her. “You can’t overcome your differences, it seems, with anyone!”

“I could say the same for you!” she shouted loudly, whirling round. Her cheeks were red. “I don’t have some ‘alternate’ agenda. I was asking about your family because…” she trailed off hopelessly.

“Because you wanted to move the discussion away from yourself?” Marik said. He was quite close to her now.

“ _No_ , 'cos I don’t wanna talk about my dead mother, 'cos if I do I might just break down completely and I’d rather not do that in front of a bloody turian…” Swallowing hard, Laurel had to crane her head to look up at him seeing as he was so close now. Heat rising to her face, she twisted to open the door and was gone within an instant.  

* * *

 

They didn’t see each other for a while. She was inevitably busy with her studies and he tried to throw himself into work. Her words stung him: a dead end job. They stung because he knew it was beneath him, although he was still serving the public in a honourable way. The words stung because they were true, but also because he valued her opinion. It was also because it was unconsciously done, and he wondered what had suddenly made him so soft. When did he ever value a human’s opinion? The time where he begrudged humans seemed far away, as if he was a different being entirely. It had made him realise something though; he had to sever this connection with her. Laurel was beginning to get under his skin and he was not comfortable with it. Circumstance had always brought them together but he would not go out of his way now to either meet or accommodate her.  He needed female turian company. That’s what he needed. He began to return to his old roots, whether out of self-hatred or a sense of duty he didn’t know. Vuren was definitely not above acting superior around him, but at least Marik began to introduce himself to the riff-raff again - the social circles of the high military. On the Citadel, it was teeming with arrogance with its many bureaucrats, politicians and military officials who hadn’t been out of the office for a long time. It was why he’d hated his previous job as military advisor so devotedly.

“I understand you’ve been invited to the veterans dinner next week,” said Vuren, at one event, which was based at a bar near the Presidium. They were surrounded by a small group of turians. The rest of the bar was filled with politicians, officials and veterans of different races – asari, salarian and turian mostly.

“Yes, I have,” replied Marik coolly. “Just deciding whether it’s something I ought to participate in.” Vuren’s eyes were beady and horribly small, as he took in Marik, swirling his alcohol round in his glass.

“Of course you should. It’s been a while since you’ve publicly shown your face. Why so, Marik?” Marik did not let this faze him. It seemed his old friend had a grudge against him. One of the females there had been catching his eye all evening, gave him a humble nod.

“Where is it you work now, C-Sec isn’t it?” said Vuren again. There was a distinct murmuring between the rest of them. Usually this was seen as a honourable public service, but within these circles, snootiness ruled over all.

“If you would excuse me,” Marik said, clearing his throat and heading to the bar. The old feelings began to come back; the urge to drink, the urge to hit Vuren until he couldn’t stand up any longer.

“Reynor,” he gruffly told the bartender, who gave him a knowing look. He was sat at the bar for a few minutes before the female turian turned up by his side.

“I hope you’re not planning to drink that alone,” she said, somewhat playfully as she took the seat next to him.

“Well maybe I won’t now that you’re here,” he said, taking a long look at her. She had a lithe frame with an irresistibly defined waist. Her markings were a light red but they contrasted rather beautifully with her eyes – a rare blue colour.

“Kyra,” she said, bowing her head in greeting. “I’ll have what he’s having.” The bartender made another for her.

“Why are you here with these types?” he asked her bluntly. He’d never been great at initiating conversation, particularly with attractive turian women. She smiled at him, taking the glass from the bartender.

“I don’t know,” she said, cocking her head. “The company is awful….until I came to the bar.”    
  
They drank and talked until they decided they wanted sex with no strings attached. She was amazing, and the tantalising scent of her made him shudder as he fucked her relentlessly on the bed, on the floor, and in the shower in the morning. He asked her if she wanted to come with him to the military dinner, and in her eyes he could see this as being something more than no strings attached. Yet the blue in her eyes reminded him of Laurel. He tried not to look at the turian as he had sex with her, but he couldn’t help it. His dreams were plagued with the damned human all night long. He made Kyra a beautiful breakfast the following morning, and their lovemaking ensued. They moved to the spare room behind the kitchen. He thrust deep into her as they ended up on the bed, barely giving her time to breathe.

“You’re insatiable,” she laughed, tickling his face with her thin mandibles. With each thrust, his face became closer with the sheets of the bed as he propped himself up on his arms. He could smell Laurel; a now very familiar blend of powder, sweat and perfume. She sweated a lot in her sleep and had made her mark on the sheets. He hoped Kyra wouldn’t notice as he finally climaxed. When they cleaned up, he found her later leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping on a hot drink.

“I’m sorry, Kyra,” he said sheepishly. “I-I haven’t…”

“I get it, you haven’t had sex in a long time,” she said. “But spirits that was the best I’ve had, maybe ever.”  

Something left him unfulfilled though. When he went back to the usual mingling with the other veterans, politicians and the like, something sank in him. He thought of drinking constantly, like a hum at the back of his mind. His disillusion with C-Sec became more and more real with each passing day. Vuren and his boss at work did not hold back on gloating in front of him, or putting him down. He wanted the future, whatever and whenever that was. He’d been sober for so long but all he wanted was a fucking drink. He drank caffeinated beverages frequently, just so he wouldn’t have to think of it. He had Kyra round more than he thought was possible, which took his mind off it. Yet the urge to drink pulsed through his mind and body at regular intervals. The old torments of bad dreams and headaches threatened to come back. He wanted to drink to forget yet drinking led to shame, which led to more drinking. Each time he had sex with Kyra he thought more and more of Laurel, which led to shame and brief disgust. It seemed to add to his arousal and then desire. With Kyra he soon imagined it was the human instead, visualising biting her smooth neck and thrusting his hand into her lustrous hair.

 _I might as well drink_.

* * *

 

It might’ve been the night she decided to call in sick, but unfortunately she’d already triggered a review with her manager about her absence. The restaurant Laurel worked at was going to cater for some event that involved the Council, its ambassadors, politicians, high military figures and the like. It was to take place that evening and she had an essay due in for midday the following morning. Her word count was 4,678. She needed to get to 5,000, as well as proofread everything. Laurel absolved herself to the fact she’d need to do an all-nighter, and stocked up with heavily caffeinated fizzy drinks before her shift. It was at times like these she wondered why the hell was she doing this course and this job. _Because of Mum. And because you want to do this, you enjoy it. You want to become what she was._ Some part of her doubted that last one – she wasn’t even remotely talented like her mother was. Her fellow colleagues, an asari named Haena and a salarian, Takoln, all lined up with her at the neon lit bar as they watched the large crowd enter. It was an assortment of turians, humans, salarians and asari dressed up in attire so formal Laurel felt rather shabby in her black wrap dress. Their boss had insisted they dress formal – normally no one would see her dead in a dress.

“Really wish I called in sick. My essay’s due tomorrow,” muttered Laurel to Haena, keeping her forward.

“That’s too bad. I don’t know how I’m going to last with _him_ gloating and simpering all night,” the asari replied, her brow crossing looking at their boss.

“Easy for you to say. I’m gonna regret him ever persuading me to wear _this_.” They turned to look at Takoln, who was bundled up in a human tux, with a red bow tie. Laurel had to stifle laughter with the back of her hand.

“I think you look very handsome, Tak,” she said, making him roll his eyes.

“Fucking ridiculous,” muttered Haena.  
  
The guests filled the entirety of the restaurant, their faces lit by the low-hanging amber bar and the large blue fish tank by them. Soft music played in the background. They had to hand it to their boss – he had a wonderful restaurant. Haena and Takoln had almost become friends to her. She forgot how much she liked having friends – especially friends you could not be serious with. Some stuffy salarian official made a speech that made everyone applaud. It was events like this that made the night go quickly. She attended the bar as usual, ignoring the rudeness of some and the overly talkative of the others. _Only one has summoned me as ‘girl’ so far, she thought._ There hadn’t been any finger clicking yet. Once the main meals arrived the noise seemed to reach its height and there was avid laughter that ricocheted off the walls. All she could think about was her essay. She had to; it was the only way she could keep everything else off her mind. _Anise. Him. The usual things that made her worry – her life in general. Mum. Him again._

Laurel should’ve known he’d be here tonight, although she got the impression that he’d cast off things like this – especially snooty military gatherings like this. Perhaps he was trying to fill in gaps; there were plenty of them after all. She was busy with someone else when Marik approached the bar, dressed in all-navy turian formal, with a younger female turian beside him. For whatever reason her palms began to sweat and her cheeks felt like they’d recently been parboiled. She finished serving her human customer, turning to fiddle with the mess on the counter. _You can’t ignore them for long. Sanders is watching._ It felt like the first time he’d walked into _Mozarts_ all over again. Why did circumstance keep bringing them together? The sooner she was off the Citadel and back on Earth the better. She felt his eyes on her. The dress suddenly was clinging to her skin uncomfortably as her hands shakily swept the used lemon and lime slices into the bin.

“Laurel!” she heard Sanders her boss call. She wiped her hands on her dress and walked over to Marik and his partner.

“What can I get you?” she said.

“Hello Laurel,” said Marik, giving her that usual x-ray look of his.

“You two know each other?” said the female turian who, Laurel didn’t fail to notice, was very striking.

“I used to frequent Laurel’s bar one time,” Marik replied, not taking his eyes off her. Laurel gave a small, embarrassed smile. Kyra made a noise that sounded like a ‘uh-huh’ but made no other comment. Marik ordered a reynor for himself, asking Kyra what she wanted.

“What human alcoholic drink do you recommend?” she probed Laurel instead.

“Err… How about a G and T?” Laurel said. Gin and tonic was a very much out of date alcoholic beverage, but she had always preferred the older, classic drinks. Kyra gave it a cautious sip, her mouth puckering at its taste. Laurel had made sure to give Marik a tiny glass of reynor.

“It’s…. interesting,” Kyra announced on the gin and tonic. “Can’t say I’ve ever tried that one. And I usually go for the human ones.” Trying not to feel snubbed, Laurel smiled stiffly and walked to clean the bar area up. Haena turned up about fifteen minutes later, looking unflustered as usual. Marik and Kyra were still at the other end of the bar.

“What’s up? Want me to tell a creep to shove it?” Haena whispered to Laurel after she’d served a particular drunk customer. She served next to Laurel. Haena’s eyes caught Marik.

“Is it that turian? He keeps looking at you, despite the half-his-age turian next to him.” Laurel’s eyes fluttered briefly in frustration and embarrassment.

“No, it’s ok. Don’t worry,” she assured Haena. The last thing Laurel wanted her colleague to know was the history between her and some retired turian general. The night dragged on and as some of the customers became rowdier, she became busier cleaning up after them. She tried not to pay attention to Marik, who was left by Kyra after a while, and mostly kept to himself. So he’d given in to his addiction; she felt a small surge of pity, but quelled it hastily. Tonight she had been working harder than she usually did – Saunders was watching their every move and she’d be damned if she didn’t get the bonus this year. She needed it for a flight back home – a permanent flight.  
  
When it finally reached two o’clock in the morning, a fight had broken out. Half the crowd had gone home, with Takoln cleaning out front and both Laurel and Haena cleaning up in the back. There was an almighty crash, the definitive sound of shattering of crockery that came from the main bar area. Looking at each other, Haena and Laurel moved outside only to see two turians fistfight in a way Laurel had never witnessed before. Human fistfights were messy, uncoordinated and ended up bloody very quickly. This was different; she hardly saw any blood and their movements were more calculated and lithe. Marik, not to her surprise was on the floor, while an unknown turian with blood-red facial markings stood above him. Before she could intervene, Marik brought himself upwards despite the other turian’s jeering.

“Can’t handle yourself, anymore old man?”  
  
This red turian didn’t anticipate just how strong Marik was, but he was completely inebriated. He landed a few well-placed hits, but this younger opponent was not fazed in the slightest. Sanders was pathetic and unsuccessful in trying to break them apart. Tables were thrown and more plates crashed as the two bodies rolled and kicked across the floor. Kyra was nowhere to be seen. Some leftover guests watched it with fascination, as if it was some reality TV show. Marik was ultimately beaten by red, who succeeded in slamming him to the floor. One of the chefs eventually came out breaking them apart, even though they’d finished. Laurel saw Marik’s blood, a vivid blue, smeared across his face.

“Get out now!” bellowed Sanders. “You are banned from this restaurant! I’m reporting this to C-Sec!” Vuren glared at Sanders and spat blood onto the floor, whilst walking away. He kicked Marik hard in the abdomen as he did so.

“No point, he works for C-Sec,” he remarked before leaving the restaurant. Silence ensued as people dispersed and hastily left. Haena and the chef stared at Marik, who didn’t lift himself up this time.

“Did you listen to me, turian?” shouted Sanders again, bending down to Marik, who looked near unconscious.

“Gods, I don’t think he’s alright,” muttered Haena.

“He’s bloody pissed,” snapped Sanders. Laurel bent down to Marik, her hand reaching out to touch the sleeve of his suit.

“I’ll take him to A&E,” she told Sanders, gently jostling Marik so he’d regain his composure. His eyes flickered in and out of consciousness.

“There’s a shit load of mess to clean up!” Sanders replied, gesticulating with his arms.

“There’s blood all over the carpet. I’ll make up the extra hour,” Laurel pleaded with her boss.  
  
After her mentioning the carpet, he seemed to pale and waved her off. She clocked out before helping Marik up and calling a skycab. Despite being a turian, Marik showed all the symptoms of alcohol poisoning like that of a human: his breathing was irregular, he was unresponsive and his skin felt cold. This last bit she wasn’t sure about – were turians naturally cold? Their thick metallic skin looked cold, but she didn’t know. Her mind was racing as she tapped his omni tool and found his address, telling the cab driver. In her haste she forgot about her bag and she forgot herself as she helped him into his apartment - barely. Marik was heavy to half carry, and she tried not to feel both awkward and delightedly nervous to be so close to him. He was virtually breathing on her cheek.  His apartment was dark and cold but she moved him towards the simulated fireplace, covered him with one of his thin sheets (where were the knitted throws, she thought) and brought a bowl of warm water.  
  
She gave him some to drink and used the rest to clean the blood from his face. It was strange to see blue blood dribbling hot and thick from his face, spreading and swirling in the bowl when she rinsed the cloth. She wasn’t sure if anything was broken or sprained or even bruised. His eyes were closed as she tentatively wiped the blood away from his plated face, not sure where to properly press, not sure how quickly his blood would clot or not. Her eyes studied his features as her hand drifted, his skin hard but pliable like leather. The way the plates of his face fitted together looked fragile yet sturdy. His once-bright forest green markings had faded, but they were still recognisable. His eyes were small, calculatingly sharp but she liked the soft flecks of brown in them. How hard was his hooded carapace – like that of a tortoise?  He didn’t look cuddly, she thought. Then immediately wondered _why_ she had done this, and _why_ she was thinking these things.

Feeling exhausted, she laid a pillow by him as he lay down. She took the sofa beside him, and let her eyes close. She fell asleep quickly, dreaming of tortoises.

* * *

 

She heard a whirring when she woke up the next morning. Laurel jumped up from the sofa, remembering where she was instantly. The body of the turian below her was gone, the sheet, pillow and bowl disappeared. She was still in last night’s dress and makeup. The mornings were never kind to her hair – a real bird’s nest. Smoothing down her black dress, she padded in her bare feet (where were her tights and shoes?!) towards the hallway, seeing no sign of him. The whirring was coming from the shower. She crossed and uncrossed her arms. She paced, bit her nails and then frantically tried to find her shoes. They were gone. _What in God’s name._ Five minutes passed while she fretted and the door upstairs opened. He came downstairs before she stupidly left without her shoes, but he was holding them as he came downstairs.

“Hi – er, I was just looking for those,” she said sheepishly. Marik was dressed only in a bathrobe, but smiled as he passed her shoes. She studied the attractive ridges on his chest but avoided looking at his too-alien-for-now feet.

“So you wouldn’t leave,” he said to her, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. She tried not to let her jaw gape open.

“I – uh – thanks,” she stammered. How was this turian her sworn enemy over ten years ago now?

“I believe I owe you a debt and an apology – but thank you for bringing me home last night,” he said to her, stepping close.

“How’re you feeling?” She diverted his attention. His stare this morning was near unbearable. He looked like he wanted to devour her, which partly wasn’t his fault, all turians looked a wee-bit fearsome.  

“Aches and pains and a dry mouth. Mostly hungry,” he said. He was oddly jovial this morning. “Would you like me to make you a breakfast?”

“It should be me,” she joked, forgetting her awkwardness now. One of this brow plates moved as if to say ‘I don’t think so’ and he turned towards the kitchen. She watched his large feet pad heavily across the tiles as he went to the fridge. His feet were like those of a cat or dog, walking on his toes like they were stilts to spring from. He fiddled around the fridge before he took out some food that looked like eggs, which automatically made her stomach grumble.

“I miss real eggs,” she said, hopping up onto the bar stool and watching him with her chin in hands. “We used to have chickens when I was little on a smallholding.” She knew he was listening to her even though he had his back turned. At least she knew that much about him – he wasn’t the type to ignore people’s words, or wait for them to stop talking to say something about himself.  

“Where did you grow up?” he asked her, shuffling the frying pan expertly on the hob.

“I… I was born on an island in the northern hemisphere,” she said, unsure how to describe it to him exactly.

“I know a little about Earth’s continents,” he said, adding seasoning to the scrambling eggs. “What island?”

“Orkney,” she said, surprised at him. “An chain of islands off the north coast of Scotland.” He repeated the name into his omni tool, which projected several photographs and a map onto the blank wall.

“Beautiful,” he told her.

“I’m afraid those photos lie, the weather is never that nice all the time. It’s always windy, never gets warmer than fifteen degrees and rains eighty percent of the year.” Marik chuckled openly at her comment, something she’d never heard before. She decided to take a risk.

“What about you?” He was silent for a moment.

“A small colony on Palaven, called Gothis,” he replied, but his tone lacked the joviality a minute ago. He turned round, setting his sharp gaze on her, plonking the plate down in front of her. Scrambled egg with salmon – she hadn’t had this for years. He’d made something similar for himself, although it lacked the cheery yellow colour of Laurel’s plate. She thanked him and began eating. A question had been on her mind for too long to keep going now.

“Marik, can I ask you a question?” she asked, watching him carefully.

“Depends on the question,” he replied. She sighed loudly.

“Who was that other turian last night? Why… why’d you start drinking again?” He stopped eating and stared at his now empty plate. Her heart began to beat faster.

“Laurel, I don’t want to talk about it. Turians don’t talk about such matters.” He said it without looking at her.

“Why can’t you tell me?” she snapped. “You seem so intent on being my friend, yet you don’t want to talk about anything.”

“Why _should_ I tell you anything?” he exploded, slamming his talons on the table and rattling the crockery. “It’s something I’d rather not dwell on, or talk over. Especially not with _you -_ a human.”

“You don’t ‘share’ anything with anyone! I open up to you, yet you react with coldness when I ask about-”

“I don’t want to ‘open up’ to you,” he said heartlessly. “You humans are completely dictated by your emotions and impulses.”

“There’s something that’s happened in your life you’re ashamed of,” she continued, ignoring him. “How'd you go from celebrated military general to some alcoholic merc-now C-Sec officer?” Marik stood up to his full height, enraged.

“How _dare_ you,” he growled.

“What? To stand up to you and tell you what you don’t want to hear? I suppose you’re not used to someone standing up to you – a turian that’s enjoyed dominating over others!” she shouted, getting down from the barstool. She began to feel her puny five-foot-five in front of him. “That you’re some washed-up grumpy arsehole with a habit that you can’t kick. That’s why you started a fight with that other turian. He used to be you and you can’t bloody stand it.”

“Get out,” he bellowed. There was an edge to his voice that nearly made her shudder.

“You haven’t changed at all, have you,” she said quietly, after half a minute or so of silence. The air felt charged with static electricity as she heard the low hum of the fridge in the background. “You seemed so superior and sure of yourself when you tortured me all those years ago. Now you’ve let resentment eat whatever there was of you – which wasn’t very much anyway.” Alarm bells were going off in the back of her mind, but her eyes had started filling up with tears. He laughed callously, the flanging effect in his tone echoing loudly in the room.

“You’re still affected by it! I thought you’d finally let go. You are _pathetic -_  just like you were back then,” he said. “Even for a grown woman, you're stupidly naïve.”

“Why are you so relentlessly unpleasant?” she exclaimed. “It’s hardly my fault we’ve been thrown together this many times. How can you belittle what you put me through?” How did he remain so unemotional, she thought desperately.

“Nothing like what some of your trigger-happy soldiers put my men through. I'll never forget three-hundred of my men going down because of your incompetence,” he spat.

“I told you I was innocent!” she roared, blinking her tears away furiously.

“You still made a grave error in judgement,” he snapped. “I believe your prison sentence was adequate enough.”

“You unfeeling bastard,” she cried. “You drowned me on and off for a week, beat me until I couldn’t feel half my body, left me shut in darkness…. if you think I’m pathetic for being affected by such a thing then you’re more cruel than I thought. I started to think you might’ve changed-”

“Save the pity speech,” he said, turning and walking away from her. “Get out of my apartment, human, and don’t come back.”

“Fine, wallow in your self-pity!” she yelled at his back. In anger, she grabbed the plate she'd eaten on and threw it at the wall. It smashed satisfyingly against the wall into tiny little pieces. He’d already turned away from her and stormed upstairs. Laurel hoped he’d stop her from leaving, but it was simultaneously both the easiest and hardest exit she’d ever made from his apartment.

* * *

 


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just say that I’m still constantly wowed by the response? I’ve been writing and reading fanfiction for years now, and back on fanfiction.net I never received the response like I have here. You guys are brilliant!

* * *

The next week or so was hard. She managed to finish her essay before the deadline and hand it in, but it was poorly edited and the conclusion was messy. Her enthusiasm for it waned, as did her energy to get to work to do her late shifts. After the fights with her sister and Marik, Laurel felt whatever zest she had in her drain away. She spent her days like a ghost, surviving and not living, wishing her life had gone differently. If only… if only… If only she’d listened to her father all those years ago; not take the drugs, not drink and drive, not go round each and every boys’ house and end up having sex with every one of them. If only she hadn’t embarrassed him with her drunkenness at one of his military opera evenings, slurring his comrades off or consistently upsetting his second wife, Emma. If only she’d tried harder at school instead of getting written warnings, detentions and temporary suspensions. If only she’d fit in as she was supposed to and wasn’t a misfit unlike everyone else. It was difficult to admit that she’d begun to like Marik.

Laurel did not like admitting to herself she might be a tiny bit attracted to him, and denied it whenever it came into her head. Like an old-fashioned gentleman, Marik had lavished attention on her in a way that no other man had.  It felt worryingly distasteful to her to feel attraction – he was _another species_. He’d evolved on a different planet and had completely different biology to hers. At the same time this attraction was like a secret crush that felt rebellious and overly optimistic - one that was probably better in her head than in the actual flesh. She knew the asari mated with many species including their own (they looked similar to human women – did they work ‘down there’ the same way?), but she doubted after twelve years humans _hadn’t_ tried it with anyone else. Yet she rarely saw cross-species relationships, or at least people looking cosy in a bar or on the street. Perhaps people were still wary of humans after all this time. She stayed in bed for a few days, not leaving the confines of her smelly apartment. She didn’t ring work or her university. It was unlike her to step into a deep depression such as this one – usually she forced it back and got on with her day-to-day life to make the pain go away. This time she gave into it. Eventually she summoned up enough courage and energy to call work and university, ignoring Sanders’ reprimands and saying she wasn’t sure if she’d return.

She’d got out of bed after the second day, and by the third day had begun to enjoy her free time. The restaurant had taken up much of her time, like it’d sapped the energy and life from her. She spent time catching up on her sleep, but also time reading books that weren’t to do with her studies. Within a space of less than two weeks, she managed to cut off the two people she might’ve had a good relationship with; Marik and her sister Anise. But it was clear to her now that she could never have a stable relationship with either; their pasts were just too murky. Anise was arrogant and Marik cold. It was obvious enough that the C-Sec faction that Marik belonged to policed her ward. It was inevitable their paths would cross, as it had done on and off for these last few years. It happened on just the one day she decided to visit a café when he must’ve taken a break. Laurel had immediately held up her large book in front of her space as she saw the top of his brown cowl moved across the room.

“Hello officer,” said the human barista behind the counter, somewhat flirty. Laurel’s eyes peeped over the top of the book to watch the interaction.

“You’d like your usual?” Laurel watched his agile form lean slightly against the counter.

“Actually I think I might go for something different today,” she saw him smile. By the time he had his drink made and sat down near her, he’d noticed. After his behaviour, she should’ve been the one to walk away from him and give him the cold shoulder. When she locked eyes with him, his brow plates moved to cross over his eyes as if in a frown. His face was predatory, angry, and she felt primitive fear. He got up, leaving his newly made drink on the table and left without causing so much as a fuss. _Why did this hurt so much?_ It ruined her day, and the next day, when she saw him leave another apartment her heart clenched.

* * *

Haena couldn’t wait for her laborious, nine-hour shift to finish. Laurel not showing up made everything else hard for everyone, and she was taking on longer hours just to cover the human’s ass. Haena was still young, and wondered why she was working in a restaurant like this. Just before the evening guests began arriving, she noticed a distinctive-looking turian lingering out the front. Takoln passed by her quickly, multitasking.

“It’s _that_ turian from the other night….” He muttered.

Ah yes, thought Haena, the turian general who got so ridiculously drunk…. she remembered hearing an interesting story about him being disgraced and his rank stripped because of his habit. As she stared over at him, he signalled her to come over to him. Craning her head round to look for sign for Sanders, she moved as soon as it was safe to do so.

“What is it?” she hissed. “My job is on the line if my boss sees me here talking to you.”

“I assume I’m prohibited from this restaurant now?” the turian replied, his deep voice reverberating.

“No shit, you caused quite the stir,” replied Haena, her eyebrows rising in surprise at his stuffy manner.

“Is… Laurel Westfahl here?” he said. “I’ve tried…. messaging her but she’s not…” Haena gave him a strange look, crossing her arms.

“I didn’t know you guys were familiar,” she said, her mouth tugging upwards into a grin. He ignored her suggestive comment.

“She handed her notice in the other day, but phoned in sick. We have a two-week notice period so her ass still needs to be here. Hasn’t been in for, like, six days or something? Why?”

“It’s of no concern,” he replied shortly. “Thank you.” She watched the stiff turian walk off, a certain sadness in his now slumped gait.

A day later, Laurel returned, but she told them straight up that she’d booked a flight back to Earth in a couple of days time. Sanders was used to her somewhat fickle manner and had already recruited someone else by this time. Haena had read up on Marik the previous night and asked half a dozen people. She wasn’t a ‘soap-box’ for nothing; she _lived_ for this sort of gossip. When Laurel arrived, she wasted no time in letting the human know about Marik.

“Guess who was looking for you yesterday,” she began, as Laurel tied an apron round her waist. She shook her bushy head, pretending not to look hopeful. Haena leaned against the door, a playful smirk on her face.

“That old turian, Marik. Said he messaged you, seemed _concerned_ about you. He wasn’t looking at you for nothing the other night.” Laurel masked her expression of delight, trying to appear indifferent.

“He’s no friend of mine,” she replied. Haena moved closer to Laurel, trying to capture a glimpse of the human’s face.

“You can’t fool me, Laurel,” she said. Laurel spun round, a blush on her neck.

“If you’re implying what I think you’re implying, then that’s _insane_ . We’re two different species – it’s just… _no_.”  Haena got even closer to Laurel, hemming her into a corner.

“Speaking from experience, they’re good in bed. As long as you let him on top though, or even from behind - because of his cowl,” Haena whispered, watching the look on her colleague’s face. Patches of pink were littered all up the side of Laurel’s neck.

“He might be a bit older than you, but he’s good-looking - kind of rugged you know? For a turian anyway. And he seems like a real, respectable kind of gentleman… one of those unyielding military types.” Laurel pointedly looked at her in the face.

“Not my type,” she said in a hard voice. There was a slight silence between them before Haena continued.

“Did you know he was done for voluntary manslaughter a few years back now?” Laurel now stiffened considerably.

“What?” she said, trying to compose herself.

“Yeah, about three years ago now. Happened in a bar. Obviously he was drunk, but he ended up killing the victim, another turian. A younger soldier who obviously spiked that temper of his.” Laurel’s eyes were wide, staring at Haena with an open mouth.

“What… How did you…” she stumbled.

“He’s a biotic, you know that?” Haena told Laurel, who didn’t think it was possible for the human’s mouth to drop further, but it did. “That's how he killed the victim. Threw him across the room and snapped his neck.”

“Jesus,” replied Laurel. “I didn’t know turians could be biotic.”

“Not many of them. They’re not looked on favourably by most of their society. All I know is that those who can master their biotics well are in a different squadron entirely,” said Haena, now losing her interest in this topic.

“What was his sentence? Did he go to prison?” Laurel whispered.

“Not sure of the exact details. He probably paid a huge fine but I know he did go to prison for a couple of years. Got out early ‘cos of his connections and probably good behaviour. With turians I think they charged both the bartender and his superior at the time for not getting his ‘habits’ sorted out. Whether you’ve got an admirer in him or not, he sounds like a _real_ charmer,” said Haena tartly, now turning away from Laurel to start her work. Biting back a retort, Laurel was glad she’d handed her notice in already.

* * *

  
A certain kind of desperation propelled him towards the docking bay of the Citadel. There were several docking bays located on the enormous space station, but this particular dock was for civilian Earth-bound travellers.

“A human called Laurel Westfahl,” he told the dock officer. “Has she passed through recently?” The officer, slightly intimidated by the look of Marik, didn’t ask questions and immediately looked up the names listed for flight 6-17.

“Her flight to London was delayed due to a mechanical failure. She’ll be in the waiting room-”  
  
He was gone before the officer could finish their sentence. It didn’t take him long to reach the room, where she was sat with a large suitcase. Her hand propped up her chin, with her elbow rested on her suitcase. He quickly glanced at the large screen to see that the flight had been delayed by a couple of hours, which made him breathe with relief. He wasn’t quite sure why he was doing this, all this, for a human. It wasn’t busy as it was late at night – often the later flights were cheaper, so the waiting room was mostly devoid of people. She didn’t notice him until he came up quite close to her. She jumped in surprise, but didn’t move to stand up.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me, Laurel. I was… I was unforgivably rude,” he told her quickly, his pulse rising. Her brow furrowed as she stared at him.

“You were a real bastard that night,” she whispered, feeling intensely uncomfortable. “I don’t know if I want to forgive you. Besides you haven’t apologised yet.” There was a tense silence between them for a few minutes. Today her hair was clipped back and she wore her usual casual attire of jeans, plaid shirt and sneakers. He briefly glanced over her to see two other humans asleep on the lounge chairs.

“I was worried…” he drifted off, embarrassed now he was admitting his feelings.

“What you said was true,” she said. “I don’t want to force this already complicated relationship as it is. It’s obvious we can’t get along.” She turned away from him slightly, biting her lip in anxiety.

“You know you don’t believe that,” he spoke quietly. Her body was tense. _Tell her you’re sorry. Tell her. Tell her, you idiot._

“Spirits, Laurel… I’m sorry,” Marik told her, unable to look at her in the eye the entire time he said it. He could feel her stare burning into him. He felt like he should’ve added ‘for everything’ but his pride couldn’t take another hit at the moment. It was very easy to read human emotions, and he could clearly see she was shocked by his behaviour.

“But… my flight is due in two hours,” she said, her wide eyes drinking him in. “I can’t get a refund. I also moved out of my apartment. Someone’s already moved in.”

“I’m not asking you to stay…” he said. She smirked at him, then.

“I think you are. You seemed quite desperate to say all this to me.” He couldn’t fault her for that one.

“I’ve more money than I know what to do with,” he admitted. “I can get you another flight.”

They came to some silent understanding. He suggested they go to the bar, which made her look at him incredulously. He told her he wouldn’t touch anything alcoholic, and he wondered how much she trusted him – probably not that much considering. They went to a fairly quietly looking bar which also appeared trustworthy and not full of dodgy customers. The lights were dim, lit only by a few amber lights and a neon sign behind the bar. There were a few turians and krogans, the bar manned by a turian. Marik ordered drinks for the both of them, although she probably wouldn’t be able to tell that what he’d ordered for himself was actually alcoholic. He wanted to quell that uncomfortable silence. _What am I doing here, why did I suggest this? Have I gone completely mad?_

“Marik I appreciate your concern and your apology but… what you said is true. I haven’t got over the past – any of the past.”

“Neither have I,” he told her. This greatly surprised her. “My problem is not physical. It fills the void, the emptiness. It’s not the alcohol, Laurel, it’s the effect it gives me. It makes things…. easier. In some ways you’re a lot stronger than you give yourself credit for. I could not, _cannot_ , deal with my past.” Her mouth nearly fell open in shock.

“Where’d you leave that dickhead from the other night?” she asked in amusement. His mandibles moved into a smirk as he gently laughed.

“You helped me home and I took out my embarrassment and anger on you. I am sincerely-” Laurel turned to him slightly more on her barstool.  

“You say sorry one more time and I’ll kick you out.” She prodded his arm to prove her point, without even realising it. For a moment, as they locked stares, he seemed to lean forward a tiny fraction. The air felt stiff and charged with unexplained emotion and she dispelled it with her great, _big_ mouth.

“You’re a biotic,” she stated, eyes sweeping over his face. His brow plates fell over his eyes in a frown, making her pale swiftly. He then chuckled at her, suddenly charmed by her boldness.

“Where’d you hear that?” he said, trying to dispel the brief annoyance inside him. He took a large swig on his drink. She turned her head, playing with her glass.

“My colleague, the asari Haena. The night you came in, she recognised you and decided to read up on the gossip.”

“Probably not the truth, this gossip,” he said, the flanging undertones in his voice beginning to show aggravation. He felt like he was going to drift.

“Look, let’s talk about it some other time, Laurel. I don’t want to start on the wrong foot again,” he implored, trying to catch a glimpse of her face. Her bushy hair covered it, but he heard her sigh. He watched her fiddling for a moment, knowing that this was a tense habit of hers.

“My dad used to say that to mum all the time. There was never enough time for her,” she began.

“Your father was in the military?” he asked, feigning surprise, when he’d known all along.

“You know that, Marik. He was pretty high up. That’s why she eventually left him. He’d no love in his heart and treated her coldly for so long. I wondered what Emma, his second wife, ever saw in the poor bastard.”

“You’re not going to listen to your sister’s wishes are you,” he said to her.

“No. I wanted to see my other sister, Fern, and I’m sick of living in space. But my dad can go to hell. Are you turians always like that, always so stern?”

“No, but we’re not like humans, Laurel,” he said to her. _Why did she always probe him like this?_ His stiff joints relaxed as he sipped his drink, eyes briefly closed at the taste. They hadn’t talked for a whole fifteen minutes, both in each of their own worlds. She seemed to catch on.

“You’re drinking,” she said, barely keeping the disappointment out of her voice. He took another swig and eyed the bartender for another.

“That’s what makes you so destructive, it’s the drink, Marik. If you don’t stop, you’ll drink yourself to death-”

“This human bothering you?” said the turian bartender, giving Marik his drink.

“None-a-ya business,” she said to him, not giving him a glance.

“It _is_ lady, it’s my bar,” came the irritated reply.

“She’s not bothering me,” replied Marik, giving the bartender an unwavering stare. The turian shrugged and walked off, still displeased.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said to her, grabbing her hand and pulling her off the barstool. She barely had time to quickly snatch her suitcase and keep up with his long-legged gait.

“You’re right,” he said to her. “It’s destructive. Let’s… I don’t know what to do… Eating and drinking are my only pastimes.”

“You like vids?” she asked.

* * *

 She felt a gentle nudge, which in her half-conscious state made her feel irritable, especially as the position she was in was so damn comfortable. Her feet were kicked up in front of her, the place was beautifully dark (unlike her old apartment – thanks to the neon glare of the ward) and she was leaning against something surprisingly soft and cushiony – although the smell was altogether familiar but alien. Thinking of this word, Laurel propelled herself upwards having realised she had fallen asleep on Marik’s shoulder while watching a vid. His body felt warm next to hers - she wanted to get away and snuggle closer all at the same time. 

“It’s fine. You didn’t miss very much,” Marik assured her, choosing to forget the fact that he’d enjoyed occasionally twirling a lock of her hair round one of his talons. He later made them both a late night decaf tea, as she relaxed against the counter.

“I knew you weren’t comfortable among that crowd, at my restaurant,” she said, breaking their companionable silence, handing him the steaming mug of tea.

“I’m not even sure why I decided it was a good idea to go…” he said, but it was clear he did not want to talk about it further. Why was it so hard to reach him? The low-lying light of his kitchen room cast unfamiliar shadows on his features. She’d been surprised earlier at his change of heart at the bar; she’d anticipated another argument.

“Were you ever married?” she blurted out. He laughed at her suddenly, caught off guard.

“Where did that come from?”

“I find myself wanting to know more about you, despite your… temper.”

“Really?” he said, his voice low and subharmonics suggestive, taking a long sip from the tea. “Well, never ‘married’. It’s not the same ceremony like you humans have. I’ve had a few partners in my lifetime, but being so involved in the military high-up was never kind to such things.”

“Were all your partners turian?” she asked, the words popping out of her mouth before she could stop them. _Jesus Christ, Laurel Westfahl._

“Yes… where’re you going with this, Laurel?” he said, stepping closer to her, his voice humming with yearning. Automatically she was taking a step back, clutching her mug, shrugging her shoulders.

“I was just…” He was then walking her slowly backwards, until she felt the cool sheet of the metallic wall behind. Her body glowed with warmth and anticipation. She pressed the palms of her clammy hands to the cold wall, watching his movements like a hawk. As he moved closer, something in her fluttered and her breath caught. She suddenly felt like a teenager. His mandibles flared in amusement as he gently took both of their mugs and put them on the counter next to them. Taking her elbows gently, he drew her towards him, despite her instinctive hands coming up to push on his chest. His body was thick and warm as he pulled her up against him and lifted her onto the counter. 

“What’re you wondering?” he purred, suddenly nuzzling his face in the crook between her neck and shoulder. A shiver of desire travelled through her, pooling as heat between her legs. 

“Just if you were still with Kyra,” said to him, feeling his sharp teeth graze the soft skin on her neck. He was positioned in-between her legs, smoothing his large hands down her thighs and provoking a more powerful tremor from her.

“That depends,” he said to her, still continuing his ministrations on her neck. It was difficult not to feel afraid yet she was so embarrassingly aroused by him. She saw the sharp plates of his cowl move as he nibbled her neck, his hand then moving upwards to bury in her coiled hair, tugging on it ever so slightly.

“On what?” she replied. His skin was browner in some places than others and she studied the tawny-coloured, rounded bumps that went down his neck, like a speckled pattern. _He’s an alien. You’re a human. He hurt you. He’s hurt you consistently. What are you doing with him?_ She could hear a voice that strangely sounded like Anise’s in her head. He then sharply pulled on her hair, baring her neck to him. She couldn’t complain; she felt her muscles clench in pleasure and her neck flush. Marik brought his face upwards.

“On whether you want sex with me…-”

“Marik!” she said, horrified and embarrassed. His talons let go of her hair quickly to look at her, brow plates raised in surprise.

“You don’t seem to mind,” he said, indicating her flushed neck and overall state.

“We’re not the same-”

“Are all humans this prudish?” he said, slightly miffed.

“You’re too…Well, I guess humans have a track record of being _afraid_ of sex.” He burst out laughing, his voice reverberating through her chest being so close to him.

“More importantly, are _you_ prudish, Laurel?” he asked her, tightening his grip on her. She felt his warm breath on her mouth as he spoke.

“Well no, but….” There was something that moved in his face, which was inexplicable. He moved away from her suddenly, leaving her hollow.

“Laurel, I’ve become attracted to you. I’ve come to….”

There was a stunned silence between them as she stared at him and he looked away, pained. Before she could reply, he turned away and disappeared. She continued to sit there, her arms curled around herself. She sat there long enough until the lights automatically went out, not detecting movement. She sat there until her buttocks hurt and her eyes felt heavy with sleep. She thought of wanting this and simultaneously not wanting it. She felt embarrassed and hungry at the same time. She knew she’d come to care for him… care in the loosest sense of the word, a doubtful, small voice told her.

 _You need a friend,_ another told her.

* * *

  
She was too nervous to try and approach him in his own bedroom, so she made do with the spare bed downstairs. Stripping down to her t-shirt and shorts, she slipped onto the hard bed and attempted to sleep but slept awfully until it was late in the night, sweating the bed. Why was his apartment always searing with heat? She knew that turians had evolved on a planet with radiation, but did they really have to live in humid temperatures? Perhaps this turian didn’t like the cold whatsoever, which was completely opposite to her, who’d grown up during bitterly cold, wet and windy seasons. Laurel found the sofa instead, which was far more comfortable than the strange turian bed. She didn’t dream, but she fell in and out of consciousness thinking about what he’d asked from her. _Sex._

  
She tried to imagine what he looked like under all that armour and underclothing, which always covered him from neck to toe. His skin looked hard and leathery. What would be the consequences of having sex with a different species? Laurel couldn’t help but feel astounded by his attraction to her. It’d been a long, long time since she’d had sex with anyone. The opportunity during prison wasn’t there. She drank for a bit after her release and inevitably had a disappointing short-term relationship that resulted in her being stranded on Omega. For a long time she wasn’t interested or yearning. Recently she’d begun to feel those desires again, but felt too afraid to pleasure herself - to make herself _want_ something more. And the disturbing fact that Marik’s face seemed to pop up if she tried, making her feel dirty. Pleasuring herself hadn’t really been something she’d do on a regular basis. Maybe Marik was right; perhaps she was a bit prim. Then there was the only factor about turian customs: did they look at sexual and romantic relationships differently to humans? Were they monogamous? Or more open with that sort of thing? Her cheeks blossomed with colour thinking about the prospect of showing her naked body to a turban. And seeing _his_ naked body. They were so different in many ways – perhaps he’d find her ugly? She also felt slight humiliation knowing she’d never properly orgasmed. Her racing thoughts suddenly made her feel sleepy again and she slept until the early morning.

Her eyes fluttered open when she heard him clattering in the kitchen.

“Good morning, Laurel,” he said, glancing briefly at her when she entered the room. He was dressed, though something more relaxed this time. _Maybe he’s given this a second thought._ She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, feeling the back of her shirt cling to her sticky skin.  

“Hey,” she managed. The lack of sleep was felt in her head, her back, her shoulders and from her dry, rabid-smelling (probably) mouth. She felt like she’d swallowed a skunk in her sleep.

“Did you sleep well?” came his voice again. _That voice._ It was no secret that she might’ve had a teeny, tiny crush on the voice. She stretched her limbs and got up to walk over to him.

“It was fine.” She saw him making breakfast, one for him and her.

“Was it? It hasn’t escaped my notice that you sweat a lot in your sleep,” he said.

“Enjoyed the view did you?” she said before she realised that perhaps this could count as ‘flirting’.  His voice made a sound that sounded like a whirr, out of embarrassment or approval she wasn’t sure. Laurel began to grow vastly aware of the fact that she was standing in just a pair of tiny shorts and a thin t-shirt that did little to hide the fact her tits looked like peaked mountains.

“I can smell your sweat on the sheets,” he replied. Was he being alluring on purpose? Her neck began to prickle with heat. 

He finished frying the eggs and slid them onto her plate. Turning round with the plates, he skirted round her and then stopped to brush her arm with his, temptingly. He set them on the table. She could barely eat from anticipation.

“Do you sleep well?” she asked. He scrutinised her with those sharp eyes, barely touching his food.

“Not really, Laurel. Not when I knew you were downstairs. I wanted you with me.” She made some sort of half choke in her throat as she attempted to swallow the food. _So forward._  Her eyes became fixated on the plate, her skin aflame with embarrassment. _I’ve never been like this all my life. With sex it was casual, never filled with awkwardness._ She felt like a schoolgirl, afraid to think what he would look like, afraid to allow herself to imagine it. All the while feeling terribly self-conscious. 

“Laurel?” came his voice. Her mouth opened and closed several times.

“I – I don’t know,” she confessed. “How would it…?” He looked amused.

“Why so concerned with the details?” His plate was still full.

“Because you’re a turian!” she spluttered in indignation. He got up slowly and laid a careful hand on her arm.

“So?” he said to her, towering over her at this point. “I can smell the desire on you, Laurel.” He tugged slightly on her t-shirt’s hem. At this point he made her feel like he'd already undressed her. She felt stunned at this declaration. _Oh great, he can smell me? That’s both embarrassing and alarming._

“What happens if-”

“I get the impression you were never like this with sex beforehand,” he said, smiling at her.

“Well no because they happened to be all flipping human!” she said, feeling incredibly flustered now.

“It’s a problem if you want to get pregnant. Because you won’t,” he replied. 

“I don’t want to get pregnant!” she snapped.

"I will use protection, Laurel," he told her. 

"Didn't you just say you can't make me pregnant?" she said. Her nipples had pebbled underneath her t-shirt and she crossed her legs tightly, trying to stifle the desire felt in her groin. His mandibles flexed in a smirk. 

"Different species should use protection..." he remarked.  _Ah, yeah,_ she thought.  _Stupid me..._ Marik suddenly held his large, three-fingered hand out in front of her. She stared at it for a while. Those talons looked very sharp. She wasn’t averse to liking it a bit rough, but sharp talons were where she drew the line.

“Do you trust me?” his voice rumbled.

“I’m finding it hard to believe you want sex with me,” she said. God, she didn’t know herself why she was making it this difficult. She was filled with so much longing the inside of her thighs ached and a hot desire pulsed from her groin to the back of her eyes. Marik bent down to face her at eye-level, bringing his arms round her tightly and pulled her close to him. Involuntarily she turned her head away.

“I thought of you when I fucked Kyra. Every time, every position. I imagined it was you underneath me,” he said, squeezing her at the last sentence as if for emphasis. “I want _you_ , Laurel.” She bit her lip, pondering, caged in by his embrace. Too close to his face for comfort. Admitting that she wanted him too (mostly) was going to hurt her pride. So she nodded instead.

 

* * *

 

He carried her upstairs. Her heart was pounding. Cradled against him she could hear his heart too, like a hammer on cloth. His bedroom was light, airy. Although sparse, she loved the large window looking out onto the Presidium.

“You’re not as light as I thought you were,” he said, when he finally plopped her down on the mattress.

“That’s a bit of an insult, Marik,” she said warningly, making him baulk in worry. Just for a minute.

“I, uh, _spirits_ …” She laughed, enchanted by his sudden meekness.

“I’ll let you go on that one. Just once.”

“I don’t see how it’s an insult,” he said, shrugging at her. “You are… delightfully squishy.”  
  
She wasn’t sure if she was pleased by this comment either but seeing as he was a _turian_ …. They were sitting on the bed, suddenly quiet. He seemed hesitant now, as if he’d been dreaming about this moment for ages but never thought it’d happen. She felt a sense of boldness and pulled the t-shirt up and over her head, baring her naked torso to him. His eyes slowly drifted down from her familiar face to her chest riddled with freckles and moles, her breasts with large areolas, her rolled stomach and wide hips. Although it wasn’t cold, her nipples hardened again and goosebumps erupted along her arms. His mouth quirked upwards slightly in longing. He moved forward to touch her breast, but she stopped him.

“Take your gloves off,” she said.

“I might hurt you. These talons are sharp,” he told her.  

“Are you suggesting you like it rough?” she said. He raised a brow-plate.

“Turians always like it rough,” he replied, moving his other hand powerfully up her thigh. He slipped his gloves off slowly, her eyes widening. How could he make that look so....sexy? He then gently skimmed his talons over her breasts, circling her hardened nipples. She watched him in slight fascination, at those powerful talons that could probably sink deep into her skin. Yet his touch was feather light. She wasn’t sure how to proceed. This felt slow – sex for her in the past had been incredibly quick.

“Human women like these being caressed?” he asked her, looking at her intently. She gave a small nod, her mouth pulling into a smirk. He cupped them gently, keeping his eyes on her, testing her reaction. Her mouth parted, unconsciously, her eyes fluttering. 

“And kissed,” she added. He hadn’t any lips, but her eyes drifted to his mouth anyway.

His fingers drifted down from her breasts, smoothing over her not-so-slim stomach, testing its elasticity. Marik had moved closer to her on the bed, so that she could feel his warm breath on the top of her head. He hooked a talon into the waistband of her shorts, tugging lightly, his legs almost straddling her.  

“Lay down,” he gently commanded, leaning over her so she didn’t have much choice but to lie down. She didn’t lie down completely, sitting herself up on her elbows.

“Laurel?” she heard him say, sliding the material off her. The shorts were soon off, leaving her only in a pair of pants. She wasn’t comfortable lying down in front of him like this.

“We can stop at any time,” he said, looking at her with his stern face. She swallowed, heart beating in her throat.

“I… Marik I’m just nervous. Also I don’t know how to… touch you.” His mandibles moved in amusement.

“How you would with a human?” He stopped hovering over her predatorily and moved to face her as his fingers tantalisingly skimmed over the skin of her stomach, her hips, her breasts. The bony edges of her hips were sensitive as he began to press down harder, moving towards the core of her. She could hear his subharmonics vibrating in approval as he caressed her soft body.  

“No pants off yet,” she said, and tugged at his long-sleeved top. Obligingly they both sat up and she tugged off his top to reveal a very broad dark chest. Without his clothes he seemed no smaller. Laurel was surprised to see the hood of his back was in fact genuine and not part of his clothing. His plated skin rose and sank in undulating waves as he breathed heavily. It was of several deep russet colours that caught the light as he breathed. Gingerly, she pressed her hand against his chest, feeling the supple, leathery skin underneath. She didn't expect his lithe body, normal for a turian, to be so muscled, not how she imagined. She could feel and see the wiry strength he carried in his shoulders and upper arms. Despite his alienness, she found this very attractive. 

“Where are your soft spots?” she asked him. He took both of her wrists and pressed them against his very slim waist. Gently, she kneaded the skin around his waist, which in some places felt softer than others. Marik pressed his face into her hair, and she could feel him purring deeply as her fingers moved along his skin that felt like suede. Becoming more confident, she began sweeping her fingers higher up his waist, kneading hard before moving down.

“Ungh, Laur… Laurel…” She pulled away immediately.

“Sorry, is that-?” He carefully took her hands in his own.

“I didn’t anticipate how skillful these fingers are,” he hummed, and to her astonishment, lifted her fingers to his mouth. He sucked on them gently, letting his sharp teeth graze them slightly. She watched him in fascination, and he moved her fingers down to her pubic area.

“Show me,” he purred. Her heart was thumping hard in her throat, and her cheeks were warm. His pupils looked blown out, the yellow irises not quite as vivid. He pushed her down to a laying position again, caressing the inside of her thighs, trailing his talons slowly further up her leg. There was a steady, pulsing desire in-between her legs, yet he took his sweet time. _And he knows it._  Hooking a couple of talons inside the waistband, he drew off her pants with a slowness that was agonising. 

“Your skin is exquisite,” he said, tickling her legs with his mandibles as she lifted her feet in order for him to tug her pants off. His voice was so low she quivered with excitement. He pulled away from his ministrations to look at the dark cluster of hair, seemingly enraptured. Yet as she threaded her fingers through the delicate curls of her pubic hair, she was shy to pleasure herself in front of him. His careful attention was somewhat torturous.

“Not all of it,” she said, gingerly pressing the tips of her fingers against the entrance of her vagina. To her astonishment, she felt an incredible amount of wetness.

“You’re being modest, pleasure yourself like you mean it, Laurel,” he said, pulling up his body against hers and leaning down to nip her earlobe. _Oh God._ She spread the wetness upwards towards her clit, rubbing the nub that was throbbing with unbridled want. Laurel couldn’t help but let out a small whimper of satisfaction. His body was incredibly warm, almost as warm as a radiator, and her eyes closed as she began to lose a sense of where she was. Her other hand drifted towards his waist, hoping to throw him off guard, or make sure he was still there. He seized her wrist before she could touch him, pressing her hand onto her breast.

“Is this what you made Kyra do?” she asked. It was hard to keep her attention span up however, not when she felt this nervous.

“With Kyra it was quick and satisfactory,” he replied, beginning to lightly draw circles on her stomach with a single sharp talon. She pushed her legs further apart, anticipating his answer. “Now I want to savour every last moment… is sex usually so rushed for you?” She was positioned between longing, desire and doubt.

“It… yeah, always,” she said, opening her eyes to look into his. His face was so stern, so alien… yet her desire to equally consume him was overwhelming. He was suddenly preoccupied with her belly button as he caressed her stomach.

“What is this? I’ve noticed asari have it as well,” he said. She felt his unfamiliarity was almost appealing.

“The navel…” she said, squirming slightly as he boldly dipped his tongue into the small hollow. “It’s where the umbilical cord used to be.” He put a hand on her hip steadying her squirming body as he licked and nipped.

“I’ve never properly…. you know,” she bit out, somewhat carelessly, desperate to get it off her chest.

“What?” he said, looking like he genuinely didn’t understand. She felt like a teenager, unable to say the right words to him.

“I’ve never had a proper orgasm,” she eventually huffed, annoyed that she had to say it anyway. He paused, considering her, his mandibles twitching slightly. His talons lightly scraped across her stomach looking as if he was seriously contemplating what she told him.

“What would help?” he said nuzzling the side of her face. She wanted to kiss him, for him to kiss her, she wanted…

“Let _go_ , Laurel,” he mumbled, nipping her earlobe again, moving his face into her hair, and tickling her nose with his long mandibles.  
  
His hand fondled her breast, the roughness of his skin hardening her nipples again pleasurably. He brought his head lower, gently grazing his teeth on each nipple so expertly that her back arched. His other hand drifted down and cupped her core hard, digging his talons into her somewhat painfully. She was suddenly aware of his erection pressing against her thigh through the fabric of his skin-tight trousers. Being fully unclothed while he wasn’t, coupled already with this sensation made her shudder with want. Her hands kept drifting to touch him, unsure of where to go but desperate to have him all the same. She heard the lower notes in his deep voice hum with approval yet it was clear he wanted to lavish attention on her. He suddenly moved both her arms above her head, pinioning her wrists down deep into the mattress. He gently kicked her legs as far apart as they could go with his knees. A human probably wouldn’t have the reach to do this, as she watched him move his head down. _Christ above._ He was studying her features in fasciation before gently spreading the inner lips of her labia open. She nearly cried out in shock, feeling his warm tongue caress the most intimate part of her body.

“Marik…” she found herself moaning, wrists straining against his firm hold, skin rubbing against his.

“A human ever make you as wet as you are now, Laurel?” he said, pressing harder on her wrists as if for emphasis. In reaction she arched her back and involuntarily pushed herself further onto him. He growled in response and flicked the tip of her clit, before circling the hood tantalisingly. His voice, continually purring in desire, reverberated through her each time he paused for breath. Sensing that the engorged nub of her clitoris was extremely sensitive, his tongue moved agonisingly swiftly across the skin of the hood and around it.

“Keep talking…” she found herself saying breathlessly. He hummed in approval, the movements of his tongue becoming faster as he began to build up to a crescendo.

“You have no idea what you do to me, Laurel,” he moaned, arousing her further. His tongue moved down towards her entrance tantalisingly. She gritted her teeth, inadvertently filthy words of her own drifted into her head. He let go of one wrist to tenderly insert his finger gently into her, then another. His talons were thicker than human fingers and he stretched the inside of her vagina as he moved up and down slowly.

“You’re delicious,” he breathed, fanning his hot breath over her.

She could feel it, the building up of an itching and engulfing feeling that made her forget about their surroundings. All she could focus on was his continuing tongue, her writhing, naked body beneath his, his incredibly scratchy low voice humming while he mercilessly drove her to an edge she thought she’d never feel. She tightened the muscles in her vagina, hoping to earn that all-pleasurable, all-consuming sensation.

“Come for me, Laurel,” he breathed over her, letting go of her wrists to smooth his hands down her body. That had done it. Every muscle in her body clenched tightly as she felt her body shake through her orgasm. Her back arched and she couldn’t help but let out a brief cry of pleasure. It surprised her; she didn’t realise how much his talking had driven her to this. He knew just when to stop, for he’d dragged his mouth away as he let her climax. Modesty was forgotten in the moment. All she had was pure bliss. Coming down from this all-too-brief ecstasy, she sat up on her elbows with a flushed face and pupils blown wide. Marik, still half clothed, was lying on his side scrutinising her with a knowing look. _A turian made me climax. I don’t believe it._

“How striking you are,” he said, face becoming more serious now.

“You old smoothie,” she said, sitting up. She couldn’t quite repay the compliment, gazing at his unfamiliar yet simultaneously fascinating body. He looked like he was still hard, although it had receded somewhat.

“What about….” He held his talons up.

“There’s plenty of time,” he told her, smoothing a single talon over one of her fingers. “I want to take my time with you.”

“Isn’t that going to… well, drive you _crazy_?” she laughed. To be honest, she was already pooped and wanted a bath. Also the smell of herself on him, her, and the sheets was a bit distracting.

“I want to. But don’t worry, it won’t be long before I’ll have fucked you on each and every available surface in this apartment,” he said, craning his head in a predacious way.

“Oh?” she teased, rolling onto her stomach, eyeing him flirtatiously.

“Keep teasing and you won’t be able to walk for a week,” he snarled.

“You nearly broke my wrists,” she teased, batting her large eyes at him. His eyes widened slightly as he looked at the raw marks on her skin.

“Oh spirits...Forgive me-”

“I’m going to end up with awful bruises and _everything_ …”

“Oh, you’re just…. you’re so soft I didn’t realise…” He was babbling like a teenager. It was pleasurable to have this much power over him for now. She leaned upwards and kissed him on the mandible. It had missed slightly, as he’d turned his head in surprise. She had planned for the mouth (a little bold, she decided) and it had landed on his lower mandible. The brief taste of him was earthy.

“You pinning me down like that… felt pretty erotic,” she reassured him.  

“Is that so?” he rumbled, pulling her up against his body. She felt like she could go through with it all over again as his warm body encased hers. They hugged each other in an embrace lying down on the bed, until they both surprisingly fell asleep.

* * *

 


	32. Chapter 32

* * *

 

Laurel woke even more tired from her nap, a lethargy spreading through her limbs as she sat herself up. Marik beside her was already awake, his torso now dressed. She was covered with a blanket, something thicker than what she was used to in his apartment. Marik’s look was pensive as he sat there, studying her with tenderness she hadn’t seen him display before. She smiled at him slightly, pulling herself up with the blanket around her. There was something about this that made her feel undeniably sexy.

“How long you been watching me?” she said, ruffling her curly hair. He looked away as if slightly embarrassed that she’d caught him.

“Not long. I was curious to how humans slept,” he admitted sheepishly.

“I tend to sleep heavily. Always have done,” she replied.

“I’m the opposite,” he told her. She smiled at him. They laughed together softly before falling quiet.

“We’re showing our age… falling asleep like that,” she said, watching the expression on his face. She still found turians incredibly hard to read.

“I’m the one who’s getting old, Laurel. You’re still young.” _Young in numbers but I feel like I’ve lived a thousand years,_ she thought. They were quiet for a few minutes, her looking away thinking of what transpired an hour or so ago, him studying her carefully.

“Your skin just under your torso, by your rib cage?” he said all matter-of-fact now, causing her to turn and raise her eyebrows. “What happened to it?”

“So it’s ok for you to ask questions but not me? How about quid pro quo, Marik?” she said to him, her expression oddly vacant masking her irritation. He gave her a slight nod.

“I… It’s a burn scar,” she explained, moving the blanket down to show him slightly, but not completely. She felt a little self-conscious at this point, forgetting her fearlessness earlier. Cautiously he drew one talon over the puckered skin, which extended over the bottom half of her rib cage. The scar looked devastating; he had his own scarring that extended up the side of his neck and cowl but it didn’t look as bad as this. The damaged skin was discoloured in places and had loosened in others. Some of it remained risen and pink, an angry mark.

“As part of my punishment I was stationed on Korlus for ten months,” she said, meeting his gaze firmly. His mouth dropped open.

“That’s… why would the Alliance do that?” he said, aghast. She shrugged her shoulders indifferently.

“Like everything else, there is corruption in the Alliance. For a time they were sending prisoners to Korlus because of overcrowding in prisons. It was cheaper to send us there rather than acquire the funds to build another prison in space or on some remote colony. We were colonising fast in the Skyllian Verge back then. They couldn’t keep up with the rapid expansion at times.”

“Were Alliance personnel stationed there?” he asked. She shook her head.

“They employed a ‘private security company’ named Arga which was basically a misfit band of mercs. The other mercs, Blue Suns mainly, had nothing to do with our presence there, but they were a constant threat, as well as the scavengers.”

“There is a lot of corruption there,” he said gravelly, knowing all-too-well.

“We were housed in a large warehouse with pretty tight security but even if we escaped the scavengers or mercs, the shitty environment would get you. We didn’t have much privacy in that warehouse, basically screens to separate the beds. A communal bathroom comprising of two shower cubicles. Shitty meals and sometimes if Arga let Blue Suns get involved, which they did, occasional beatings,” she explained. In response, Marik began to feel his talons curl together; his mandibles tightened as he pressed his mouth plates together in a hard line.

“We were sent out every day, often working ridiculously long hours. There were quite a few who died. Why get anyone else when you can get lowly prisoners to do it for you? They tagged us with electronic devices; we were like a modern day version of a chain gang. We dismantled Alliance ships mainly, with a few exceptions. The combined smog and heat made the work near unbearable. We used plasma torches and other pieces of equipment but they were in limited supply and often dangerous to use. The authorities there have no environmental regulations. They just let the waste spill onto the environment and into the atmosphere. Christ knows if native flora and fauna existed there.”

“What did the Alliance tell the families of the deceased?” Marik asked.

“I don’t know,” she sighed. “Some bullshit, anyway. A lot of us had injuries. One guy lost an arm, another ended up with cancer. This shipyard operated without the risk of lawsuits or unions because it was all so secret. All the Alliance did each time Arga reported was compensate the families or the individuals. We had gas masks and protective equipment but sometimes that did little against explosions or falling pieces of metal. Reaping the economic benefits was more important than taking care of the workers, clearly.”

“So what happened to you?” he demanded, angered now.

“Explosion. A fuel tank wasn’t drained. I actually got away lightly, believe it or not. The others there had worse burns. We didn’t have adequate medical facilities to properly treat the burns. I was operated on, had skin grafts but it was pre-golden age medical care. Nothing like back home. We were only prisoners, _criminals_ , after all.”

“Laurel…” he whispered, putting his hand over hers. _Whoa, that’s too close._

“It’s fine,” she brushed him off, pulling the blanket back over her body, turning from him. He was being too kind; he was making her feel too vulnerable with this outpouring of information. She didn’t know where she was headed, as she took off towards the nearest exit, blanket tightly pulled round her chest.

“It isn’t fine,” he persisted, blocking her exit with his body. Laurel craned her neck to look at him straight in the eyes.

“It’s _got_ to be fine. Otherwise I’ll go mad,” she told him, her jaw clenching. There was a soft look in his face that she wasn’t used to seeing. He cupped her clenched jaw with a tenderness that was almost human. She pressed her cheek into his rough hand earnestly, hearing his quiet intake of breath. His face was so serious, so… she couldn’t read it as he gently stroked her.

“What is it?” Laurel asked. He shook his head, removing his hand from her face, even though there was something on the tip of his tongue. They looked at each other for a while longer, knowing the hunger. Knowing that they needed and wanted to quench the hunger for each other with sex. She bit her lip in anxiety, wanting to kiss him again, knowing wit the way he stood so close to her that he wanted the same. Yet she turned into the bathroom and closed the door. 

* * *

Several days later they finally had another evening off together. They had been on each other's minds constantly. When Marik returned from work she was curled up on the sofa, standing up anxiously to see him. Laurel watched the way his alien muscles flexed underneath his suit as he took off his remaining armour after they'd exchanged pleasantries. His face looked serious, although it was always hard to tell with turians. She was sure she'd heard him masturbating that morning, although perhaps that was wishful thinking. She'd woken earlier than expected, hoping to have a bath before he woke up. Instead she heard him panting, his deep voice reverberating through the wall. Not much had been said later that evening, but she'd gone up to him as he changed in his bedroom, the unspoken desire between them undeniable. 

Stepping towards her, he curved his arms round her waist, pulling her in. She pressed the tips of her fingers into his upper back, feeling the strong yet supple plates move delicately as he breathed deeply. Boldly, she moved to plant kisses on his bumpy neck, nipping and licking the tangy-tasting plates, which felt hard on her teeth. She had to stand on her tippy toes to do this, stretching her body far enough that her muscles strained slightly. Thankfully, he leaned lower into her touch as she continued to kiss him, her lips tingling as she did so.

He walked her to the wall behind, pushing one of his legs in-between hers, effectively cradling her against the wall. She pulled her clothes off while keeping her eyes steady on him, beckoning him. Pupils blown wide again, Marik lowered his face into the crook between neck and shoulder, his talons moving to touch her scalp, tugging lightly on her coiled hair. Aroused he tightened his grip on her hair as his other hand groped her ass, breathing heavily. Her hands felt gingerly around his pants, seeing if she could loosen them but she couldn’t find anything to undo them.

“I’m at a disadvantage,” she whispered into the side of his head where an ear should be. She heard him chuckle ever so slightly as he moved from her, keeping his eyes on her unblinkingly. He turned around with his hands behind his back indicating a barely-there fastener. She placed her hands on his, pushing them away gently to do it herself. The garment felt needlessly complicated to her, woven round his waist several times before splitting down either leg.

“And I thought human clothes could be complex,” she joked.

“You don’t have spikes,” he replied.  
  
Her heart began to beat hard. What was she expecting? He didn’t have his boots on, and he pulled off the garment on his feet. His feet were curiously like his talons – much larger and sharper ( _yikes_ , her mind thought). His back was broad, curved, interspersed with its fair share of – scars? – among the various russet and mushroom browns that coloured his skin. His waist was small yet contrasted with his broad back was beginning to feel irrefutably attractive to her. She could see the knobbed outlines of his spine, which began under the ending of his curved hood. She moved the tips of her fingers softly over his plated buttocks before he turned round slowly, meeting her gaze.

“Laurel…” he said, cupping her rounded cheek with his talons. Why did she feel so shy? She was avoiding _looking_ at him – she could feel his hard, warm member rest against her stomach as he pulled her close.

“You seem as if you’ve done this with a human before,” she murmured, not meeting his gaze.

“I haven’t. Not with an asari either. I… took to researching,” he said, the purr back in his voice. Her cheeks and neck blossomed with pink. _How long has he been sexually attracted to me?_

“I do like it when you colour like that,” he growled, hoisting her upwards into his arms and walking back to the bed.

“You seem awfully sure of yourself. How long exactly have you been…?” her words trailed off as they lay side by side, him propped up by his muscular arms, her by her elbows on her back. There was a bluish pre-cum swirled on her stomach and her eyes drifted to him un-beckoned. Totally unsheathed it was unsurprisingly the softest-looking part of him, ridged with a rounded bulbous head. A deep blue, much like the colour of his tongue and blood. His pre-cum enticingly dripped down onto the blankets under them. She swallowed. 

“Essentially our biology is not too different,” he began, voice low and buzzing with impatience, excitement. “Why don’t we forget the research…. what would your first move _as a human_ be?”  
  
His look was so genuine, so undeniably charming. Leaning forward tentatively, she cupped his mandible and brought his face to hers. She kissed his mouth plates, nipping and suckling before moving her tongue to meet his. He responded awkwardly, like a schoolboy, unfamiliar with her movements, but she heard the purr intensify in his sub-vocals. His hand was kneading her hip in response, trailing up to fondle her breast. The taste of him was bitter and left a tingly sensation on her tongue. She’d worry about reactions later.

“That was… interesting,” he said, pupils blown wide.

“You’ve just had your first kiss,” she smiled. He then swiftly pulled her under him, running a single talon over her core, which was burning with desire. She felt his throbbing cock, and then gripped it firmly in her hand. She moved her hand up and down slowly with a painstaking precision as she parted her legs.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” he murmured, hoisting her legs onto his hips and positioning himself against her entrance. This confession sent a shudder through her crotch up to the back of her throat. He leant over to grab a condom from his bedside table, keeping his eyes on her as he rolled it on with painstaking precision. His legs caged her in-between his own and she almost squirmed from impatience, wanting him to fill her. 

He moved his cock tantalisingly over her labia, spreading her wetness and circling her clit until she let out a soft moan. It was a tense moment for him to position himself comfortably, leaning over her closely so that she could feel his hot breath on her neck. Her fingers dug into the mattress, closing her eyes. His erect cock pushed into her as he slowly lowered his position on the mattress. He was being deliberately gentle but at this point she felt so aroused she wanted him to thrust hard and fast. She clenched in slight pain as he panted above her. The muscles in her vagina were being stretched to proportions that hadn’t been stretched in a while.

“Are you alright?” he said, pressing his hot mouth against her ear. A shiver cascaded down her spine.

“It’s a bit uncomfortable...but that's to be expected,” she said, breathless. He didn’t feel as big as he had looked, but he was warm and solid as her vaginal muscles accepted him. His arms moved underneath her back so he held her tightly within his grasp. Inadvertently with this movement, he had deeply buried himself and she bit back a half-cry, half moan.

“You are….” he said as he began to shift within her, a delicious, itching warmth spreading through her thighs and backside. Whatever he was going to say next was lost on the tip of his tongue.

“I take that as a good sign?” she said. He only hummed in response as she moved her legs further upwards and locked her feet behind his back. He began to give slow, deliberate hard thrusts yet as he did so she could feel his cock swell further inside her.

“Whoa,” was her first response. He chuckled a little. Still cradling her he brought them up to a sitting position at the edge of the bed with her on his lap, her legs either side of him.This new position knocked all the breath out of her. 

“You seem surprised,” he said, beginning to play with her nipples.

“I… I didn’t expect it,” she whispered, meeting his lustful gaze. “You’re giving me all the power sitting here like this.” He was so deep inside her that she felt black spots swim beneath her vision. She could feel each ridge on his cock pressing against her inner walls, now that he had swollen bigger inside, forcing her to accept him. 

“I’m stretching you as far as you can stretch,” he murmured, nuzzling her neck.  
  
His intention was clear; he moved a talon down to her clit, gently stimulating it with the pad of his finger and eliciting a moan from her. She began to thrust, her breasts bouncing and sweat gathering on her forehead. Yet as she did so, a sharp pain began to radiate from her inner thighs. Pleasure was mixed with pain as they found a rhythm, her cheeks slapping against his large, muscular thighs. Her head craned back as she pounded harder, feeling his hot breath on her nipples. At this point he had stretched her beyond belief, so much she couldn’t contain her gasps of pleasure and slight discomfort. He moved his hands to her buttocks, cushioning her falls yet making her thrust harder, forcing himself deeper into her. As they built up a memento however, the pain felt on the inside of her thighs was becoming somewhat unbearable. Oh but she didn’t want to stop, and neither did he. He felt too good, and she heard him moaning softly, his deep voice reverberating through her as he licked and nipped and breathed on her chest.

“Ah fuck!” she shouted, at the cusp of pure heat and pure agony. Immediately he stopped, forcing her to as well. The throbbing was there now, real and awful in all its glory.

“Laurel?” he said, eyes wide, possibly terrified he’d hurt her. His sensitivity was touching.

“Holy _Christ_ that hurts…. What the _fuck_? Am I having an allergic reaction?” she said, touching her body in sudden anxiety as if worried an extra arm had protruded from some orifice or other. He looked briefly amused.

“I didn’t think a human having sex with a turian would be so…. Overwhelming,” he teased her. As a warning she clenched her inside muscles, wiping the smirk off his face.

“Another stunt like that and I’ll be burying it all inside you,” he growled in her ear, pulling her forward and nipping her earlobe sharply. Disappointment flooded her however.

“My thighs feel like they’ve been doused in acid,” she moaned. His features grew serious and looked down to her legs, parting them slightly to take a better look.

“Your skin is so very sensitive,” he told her.

“So it looks as bad as it feels then,” Laurel said, watching his reaction. With tenderness he encircled her in his arms and pulled her upwards so he slipped out of her. She quivered with a sigh, feeling a slick trail on her thighs and stomach. Back on her heels she assessed the damage. The skin of her inside thighs was raw pink in some parts, chafed red in other. There was a bloody smattering both on her thighs and his.

They stung, beating the same rhythm as her fast breaths. The blood trickled down her leg a little. Some of it had smeared on his clean white sheets. His mouth was open with panting from their previous efforts, as she met his eyes.

“Spirits…” was all he said. His yellow eyes were wide open.

“It’s okay,” she said, hoping it would reassure him. She unfolded her legs and moved off the bed. She turned back to face him. Her eyes couldn’t help but look at his opened plates with his cock still erect.

“I think I’ve got some cream in my bag somewhere-”

“I didn’t realise…. was I being too rough?” he asked. Laurel smiled at him.

“You’re cute when you’re all concerned,” she replied, now wandering to the bathroom, throwing a look over her shoulder. She was going to wash away the spattering of blood on her thighs, when he was at the door in an instant. He had that look on his face again. Approaching her with a dark look, he put his hand on her bony shoulder.

“How about… we try it in the bath? With me behind? That way we can avoid further chafing…”  
  
Quirking an eyebrow, she gave him a small smirk. Taking this to be an affirmative, he walked towards the bath, which was built deep into the floor. While he filled the ceramic tub, Laurel continued wiping the blood and rubbed skin away. By the time she was finished with her skin smarting, he was already in the water patiently watching her. His gaze still unnerved her, even if it was one full of yearning. Sitting down, she placed her calves into the water. It was deliciously warm, the heat spreading through her limbs.

“Not too hot?” Marik commented. “I know you dislike heat. You figured how to turn the heating down in my apartment…” She bit her lip a little in amusement, trying not to laugh. Taking her waist he eased her slowly into the water, her skin stinging like a hot poker. The water reached her chest when her feet touched the tiled floor.

“Wow, this is deep for a bath,” she joked, feeling the warmth encase and relax her body. _I could get used to this._

“For a puny human, yes,” he replied, looking deadly serious as he said it.

“Puny? That one’s old as the hills, Marik,” she said, laughing, deftly kicking him in the shin. He couldn’t help but wince at her kick, but moved to grasp her waist again. She dived under the water expertly dodging his hands, moving through the water and popped up the other side of him. Her coiled hair was now flattened. Turning round, he pinned her against the wall of the bath with his arms, his gaze intense.

“Are you ready to try again?” he murmured, sending a vibration through her chest.

“You bet,” she replied, as he pulled her up against him.

“I don’t know how I’m gonna keep being gentle with you,” he confessed, putting his talons round her neck. Her heart skipped a beat as he did so. He tilted her head, giving his mouth better access to the long smooth slope of her freckled neck. Her fingers drifted up to behind his fringe, manipulating the surprisingly soft skin there, making him groan deeply. The water tantalisingly rippled round them.

“Show me how to… kiss again,” he murmured, yellow eyes burning through her.  
  
Tentatively, Laurel leaned forward and softly nipped at his upper mouth plate. He couldn’t flex his mouth as much without lips but he was a quick learner. She felt his tongue penetrate her mouth, running it along her teeth and letting his own sharp pincers gently bite her lower lip. They continued like this for a while, enjoying the warmth of the bath and exploring each other’s vastly different bodies. When she turned round and braced her forearms on the floor by the edge of the bath, the new position certainly had her forgetting about the sting of her thighs. This time he wasn’t slow. She threw her head back against his shoulder as he thrusted hard into her. Both him and the water carried a lot of her weight and she hooked her feet round the back of his legs.

“How does it _feel_ , Laurel…” he hissed into her ear, the deep baritone of his voice making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She felt him filling and stretching her again with his thrusts, hard and slow. She couldn’t speak, feeling like her organs were being pushed into her throat with each drive of his cock. The water spilled over the top of the bath, sloshing noisily across the floor.

“To have a turian…” he was panting hard in her ear as he nestled his head on the crook of her shoulder. The water was sloshing loudly around them. The wet tendrils of her hair stuck hotly to her neck and cheek.

“…Fuck you harder and better than a human?” His thrusts began to speed up. For a moment she couldn’t think of anything else but the tremendously overpowering feeling inside her.

“Who says…… you’re better?” Laurel managed to breathe.  
  
The hand that was on her waist drifted down to her groin, parting the lips of her labia and circled a single talon carefully round the swollen nub that was her clitoris. Her clit burned with want, sending an itching surge travelling up her body. He pressed his mouth plates hard against her ear, breathing hotly onto her cheek. His movements were overpowering her, her chest constricting and her abdomen pressing hard against the ceramic of the tub. This position was perfect for him to drive deeper into her. He cupped her breast, his head still nestled in the crook her of her shoulder.

“Your smell… your moans… give it all away,” he began, moving his talons to clutch her thighs, digging them in. Her hand now worked furiously over her clit, fraught with aching desire. He was certainly being rough with her now – the thrusts were almost painful and would’ve put her off if it weren’t the fact that it was _him_ doing it.  

“Your heart rate, ungh… that glorious… blush on your neck,” he hissed.  
  
Her body shuddered in a sudden blissful orgasm, sagging in his arms. He panted hard and fast in her ear, and clutched her tightly as he came powerfully, shuddering and moaning. She could feel new warmth in the water. Her eyes drifted down to see a slim trickle of blue in the water. For a moment they both stood there in the comfortable warm water, breathing hard. She felt his breath on the nape of her neck. Slowly she turned round to face him, almost shyly but grinning. His gaze was fixed on the water encasing them, his mouth open slightly. He didn’t move, his eyes unblinking. She spoke his name, feeling the sting in her thighs. He moved forward, placing his hands on the tiles and lifted himself powerfully out of the water. Grabbing a large towel, he wrapped it round his waist and walked out of the bathroom. Laurel watched the water ripple, red and blue mixed together. Her vagina throbbed. A moment later when she took a towel for herself, blood and cum running down her legs, she saw him drying and clothing himself. This strange coldness hurt.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. He looked up at her surprised.

“No matter,” he replied, his face looking serene – serene enough for a turian. He saw the knitting of her brows and stopped what he was doing, approaching her.

“Are you alright? No… reactions as such?” he said. She smiled in response, unfolding her arms and moving a tender hand to touch his exposed bicep.

“Nothing so far…. it seemed like there was something the matter when you finished,” she said. His expression turned sheepish as he drew his eyes away from her, mandibles clamping.

“Sorry Laurel…. It’s hard to gauge human comfort and expression at times,” he replied. This didn’t surprise her, but she felt he wasn't being entirely honest. Did he feel shocked that he'd just fucked a human? A human - a species whom he once claimed to despise? 

“Do all turian partners just finish up quickly like that?” she said, her tone becoming playful. She didn’t want this to sour when it had been so amazing so far.

“Well… of course?” he said, confused.

“Humans tend to cuddle a little afterwards….” She replied. She heard him purr in response, slinging an arm round her waist and pulling her into an embrace. She ignored his previous coldness and the stinging of her thighs, to enjoy his warmth. 

 

* * *

 

The workplace soon drove them apart again. As they both mostly worked long hours, there were times when they didn’t see each other for days on end. Marik wasn’t sure where she was currently working, if indeed she managed to get her old job back again or found another. He thought bar work was below her, but she didn’t happen to agree, or even challenge it. After they’d had sex, he cooked her another glorious meal and they’d talked about their lives. She imparted with more information than him – which was the usual. It amused him to think that he was less inclined to do this even though he had proposed having sex. He asked her more questions however, not giving her time to ask him anything. The painting on her skin intrigued him – what was it exactly? She said it was a tattoo of a bird, specifically what humans call a bird of prey. This bird was an osprey, one that she had watched with her mother when she’d been a child. Her passion and devotion to her parent (and to that bird, he admitted) was touching. He’d never formed anything as close with his parents.

It wasn’t like him to ignore problems, but then again maybe it was like him. The sex had felt incredible, despite the interruption. Her body was softer, more pliable. Her extra two fingers manipulated his skin tantalisingly. He liked her neck, found it hard not to bite down on it as he might’ve done with other, more turian partners. He hadn’t realised how much the friction between their bodies would damage her skin. It was difficult to be gentle with her because it was hard to hold back. Their biology was remarkably similar but still so different simultaneously. Yet it was hard to wash away the feeling of guilt, shame and dirtiness. Guilt because he’d tortured her all those years ago; shame because she was much younger and dirtiness because she was a human. In fact the last reason could be applied to all those feelings. His parents would’ve turned in their graves. His superiors and peers would ridicule him. Vuren would find the opportunity to do so almost immediately. He’d be looked down upon. His species were not unfamiliar with interspecies sex – of course they’d known the asari for years now. But humans were not to be trusted. These thoughts often stirred a quiet anger in him, and his mind automatically wanted to stoke it with the bottle under his bed. It was so simple. When evening arrived, he heard the front door open.

His eyes drifted over her as he came down the stairs; she wore her usual getup of jeans, plaid shirt and sneakers with her hair bundled on top of her head. She held a paper bag.

“What’s in the bag?” he questioned her. She walked up to him, unafraid.  _She should be afraid_ , his subconscious chimed in. 

“I saw a doctor, gave me some advice… and some special cream. As well as tablets,” the human replied, shrugging her shoulders. Glacial blue eyes took him in, threatening to disarm him. He hadn’t noticed before but he saw faint brown flecks circle the outer edges of her pupils.

“Good day off?” she asked, turning away and putting the bag on the countertop in the kitchen. He wanted to rile her up, make her feel shame like he was feeling. Instead he took another slurp from his bottle and uncharacteristically slumped on the sofa. He didn’t hear her move for a few minutes. Eventually she sat on the armchair facing him, her eyes burning into the bottle he held.

“This feels wrong, Laurel,” he eventually told her after minutes upon minutes of silence. It made him ache to say it. Not when she was sitting there, so kind and open and… and-and beautiful-

“I can guess why you’re being like this,” she said, surprising him. His gaze flicked back to her. “You enjoyed the sex and you’re too proud to admit that maybe, somewhere in that cold heart of yours, you’ve feelings for me.”

“You presume too much. Feeling and fucking are two different things,” he answered. Her eyebrows knitted in confusion.

“I don’t think you really believe that, Marik.” He wasn’t looking at her, the bottle clutched tightly in his hands. He didn’t say anything, assuming her patience wouldn’t last. But she sounded oddly calm in all this, even though he was aching to fight with her – so much more familiar.

“Look, for what it’s worth, I had a good time,” she said. It sounded final to him.  _Let her go. You need to let her go, you old fool._  She stood back up, grabbing her bag.

“You stay until I tell you to go,” he said, making her raise an eyebrow. She then carefully prised the bottle out of his tight grasp, his talons scraping against the glass. Her gaze was wary, wondering if he’d lash out verbally or perhaps physically. The alcohol made his head heavy and whirl like he was swimming in butter. Her delicate slim fingers then traced his metallic skin, curling round his mandible. Even in his state, he felt a pulse, a longing.

“Don’t do it, Marik,” she said softly. She continued to stroke his face, particularly along the scar that up the side of his neck.

“I want to know you,” she added. His jaw tensed.

“You humans have a saying – ‘let sleeping dogs lie’. I’d say that counts. I might’ve fucked you but that doesn’t give you a free pass in knowing everything about me,” he said. Her hand drew away sharply.

“You’re a real bastard sometimes, Marik,” she snapped. “So unpredictable you’re nearly bipolar.” That did it. He seized her wrist before she could stand up and storm away.

“I’m sorry, I – I shouldn’t be drinking,” he said, tugging on her wrist.

“Why are you so unkind sometimes?” she said, trying to twist her wrist out of his grip.

“I don’t know,” he said. “If I talk about these things to you… well it’s just a form of self-torture.” She was silent for a moment and he let go of her wrist. Much to his surprise she didn’t continue to press him. In fact there wasn’t a shred of anger in her like there’d been before. Telling him she was going to the library, she left him with his thoughts, and his bottle.

* * *

 

A couple of tiring shifts later, he thought he’d try to make it up to her. He wasn’t very good at reading women let alone humans. He would make sure to avoid the bottle because he’d resumed the habit as of a few days ago and did not want it to continue. He thought once the sex was over he’d say goodbye to her; make sure he’d never see her again. But it didn’t work that way, and despite his prejudices he’d been drawn to her for a long time now. He suggested dinner at a local restaurant he knew did both dextro and amino-based foods, and she seemed to appreciate the idea.

“Getting tired of cooking for me already?” she said after getting changed out of her work clothes. It was a rare evening that they had off together. He gazed at her as she came out of the bedroom upstairs, having changed out of her plaid shirt and scruffy trousers. This time she wore high-waisted trousers and a long sleeved top that displayed the tops of her shoulders, her neck and collarbones. She had her curly hair bundled up on top of her head. She knew what she was doing to him and for once he was slightly tongue-tied.

“Speechless?” she said, her eyes drifting over him, equally full of longing. There it was again, that blossoming of colour down her neck.

“Maybe a little,” he replied, stroking her soft neck with the back of one talon.

“You think _this_ is sexy? I don’t think this compares with the current fashion,” she joked. “Especially the _asari_ fashion…” He responded only with pulling her forward and pressed his mouth hard against her neck.

“That answer your question?” he replied, pulling what he hoped she’d see as a smirk. It was a busy evening and although she suggested walking down there, he quickly rejected the idea and ran them in his skycar instead. He’d hoped she wouldn’t notice the fact he’d suggested this as a result of not wanting to be seen walking arm-in-arm or hand-in-hand with a human. The galaxy and him, wasn’t quite ready for that. There were a few stares and whispers when they entered the restaurant, which was busy, but thankfully not rammed. He chose a seat towards the back of the restaurant, in case anyone he knew came in. He hated bumping into people he knew and unfortunately he knew a lot of people. The restaurant was dimly lit with battery-powered simulated ‘candles.’ A lot of human things the asari had caught on to and used them as if they were kitsch fashion items. _Contemptible,_ his mind thought as he eyed the candles, the neon bar sign and the soft music playing in the background. As they were seated and given menus by an asari waitress, Marik had noticed Laurel had been silently sniggering. His eyes flicked up to her, partly irritated. He hated sniggering.

“What’s so funny?” he asked. It looked like it was difficult to contain her laughter.

“Just…you know that neon sign? Well…” she burst into a peal of giggles, like a child. He was aware of people enough already, without her adding to their interest.

“What?” he hissed, leaning forward.

“Amongst all the other neon signs, the one by the bar is hilarious. It says in English, ‘Fuckin’ bar’,” she barely got out.  He didn’t understand. He assumed the first was some sort of profanity but how did that make it amusing? If anything it was totally inappropriate.

"Guess they didn't realise the obvious," she laughed again. His mandibles clamped together, and she quietened down when she noticed he wasn’t amused. The waitress then came over to take their order.

“How are you both doing this evening?” she asked them, bringing out her holopad. They both mumbled a ‘good, thank you’. Laurel ordered a cocktail, him a non-alcoholic beverage.

“Are you two on a date this evening? Or just two good friends?” asked the asari, her eyes twinkling. “I haven’t seen many humans and turians mingle-”

“Yes that will be all, thank you,” said Marik loud enough so that he drowned out the rest of her words. Put out, the waitress’s face fell and she promptly turned away. Laurel opposite raised her eyebrow.

“What’s got your plates in a knot?” she said, taking an olive from a pot near her hand.

“This restaurant is more pretentious than I thought it was,” he grumbled trying not to be amused by her comment.

“I like it,” she replied thoughtfully, rolling her eyes round the room. “The little human touches are familiar…. and more comforting than I thought.” He barely grunted in reply. He knew he was being an arse, but it was more comfortable to be with the status quo rather than against it. Perhaps going out was a step too far for him.

“Use of human items as kitsch fashion is distasteful,” he eventually said. He pointed at the lava lamp in the corner. “That thing is….”

“Remnant of the sixties?” she finished for him, although he wasn’t sure what she meant. He tried to focus on something else other than his anxiety and rising annoyance, like her neck, her clavicles, her waist…She looked relaxed, popping those olives into her mouth but he wondered if she was doing this to stem her own anxiety.

“I wonder why you find it ‘distasteful’ though?” she asked. “Is it because you feel humans are treading on your turian toes?”

“Well, no,” he replied, awkwardly. She shook her head, smiling at him.

“You’re just too easy to read, Marik. You shouldn’t have asked me to dinner if you were going to get so self-conscious about being seen with me.”

“I’m-I’m not,” he protested. _Like a_ _teenager_ , his mind thought. She quirked an eyebrow at him, which was a human way of expressing doubt or what he saw as defiance. There was silence when the waitress came back with their drinks. The waitress didn’t pass them a single word. He watched her sipping her drink for a while, until a different waiter approached them asking if they were ready.

“If you want to pursue this relationship then maybe you ought to drop the attitude, just for once,” she said, smiling sweetly at him before taking a long gulp of her drink.

“What attitude?” he said stupidly. _Spirits, you are embarrassing._

“The ‘it’s so mortifying to be dating a human,’” she finished for him. He felt his buttons beginning to be pressed – it didn’t take much, unfortunately.

“We are not dating,” he hissed, glancing over at the other guests, hoping they hadn’t heard her infuriatingly loud voice.

“Oh of course,” she nodded, smirking. “Sex is off the cards then.” He felt a boyish pang of disappointment.

“What?” she said. “I don’t have sex with random people I’m not dating.”

“Oh that is very amusingly inconsistent of you,” he snapped. “Considering your history, I’d say it was the opposite.” She flushed, deciding to look at the bottom of her glass, swirling the drink. She kept her head down for the next few minutes, pretending to decide what she wanted. His appetite had dried up, and he couldn’t help but flick his eyes up to her every moment or so. Something inside him was tearing. Yet his insufferable pride won out, and he didn’t say anything until a different waitress came over. She ordered something bland sounding, so he did the same – a soup. While he loved soup, it was a mild pick for a fancy restaurant.

“So Marik, if we’re not dating,” she piped up, setting a cold gaze on him. “What the fuck is this?”

“Spirits knows,” he replied. Laurel set her jaw straight, sitting tight and tense in her chair. Her eyes appeared glassy. The food arrived and they ate it in utterly miserable silence. He paid for the meal and they left as soon as they could. He could feel the other guests’ stares on his back. Marik was somewhat relieved that she accompanied him back to his apartment, but he was simultaneously dreading what was to come next. He’d royally messed this one up, big time. By the time they’d entered his apartment, she stormed through towards the bedroom, where he knew were all her things. It seemed to occur to him prematurely that she would leave, perhaps forever.

“Laurel,” he began. “Listen-” She whipped round, razor sharp with eyes blazing.

“No _you_ listen! Just when I start to feel like I've feelings for you, you push me away. I don’t understand. Why do you hate me so much?” Her face hardened, with brief loathing.

“I don’t hate you,” he replied stiffly.

“But you still hate humans, that’s why this evening was a complete fucking nightmare.” He stepped forward, straightening up.

“Humans have a lot to learn,” he defended, although he realised this was not the right answer. “You are overconfident and impulsive. The galaxy existed long before you decided to colonise it.” She briefly looked like she wanted to hit him.

“Christ, you haven’t changed one _bit_ , Marik. I do wonder what you find attractive in _me_?”

“Don’t push me, Laurel,” he warned, although he wasn’t sure he meant it.

“You _always_ say that,” she said with gritted teeth. “Don’t push me, refrain from provoking me and so on! Why? Afraid you’ll do something you regret?”

“Because you know what you’re doing,” he said. “You’re riling yourself up.”

“ _You’re_ riling me up!” she snapped pushing him back hard. “Your bigotry is fucking ridiculous.” Something flickered in his chest.

“Ridiculous?!” he shouted. He took a step forward, close enough that they touched.

“If you were a turian,” he began, his voice dangerously low. “I’d spar with you. I’d drag you to the mat praying I’d go easy on you 'cause I knew I wouldn’t. It would finish on the bed, with me fucking you hard until you couldn’t take it anymore. How could a human like you possibly handle it?” His breath caught in his throat, as did hers. His sub-vocals began to hum with arousal, and he bent down to press his mouth against her ear. _What are you doing,_ his mind chided him. _Where is your resolve?_

“You know what you stuck-up bastard, have your spar then,” she snapped, before winding her arm round his neck in a chokehold. Stunned by this action, he choked slightly as she tightened her arm round his neck. Reacting quickly he grabbed her by the leg and lifted her up into the air before smacking her back down onto the hard floor. She was briefly winded as she lay there staring up at his bent over form, catching his breath. He felt pretty smug.

“Don’t kid yourself, Laurel….” he said, brimming with derision. Suddenly slamming her leg down onto the back of his neck, she knocked him to the floor. She wrestled him face-first into the cold floor, with him trying to push her off. Evidently she could still hear his purring beneath her as tried to flatten him to the floor.

“Shut-up,” she hissed as she did so. He pushed her off with ease, grunting, before they rolled over each other across the floor. Her feet were hooked on to the back of his spurs, threatening to push them back. He pulled her upwards, his talons piercing the skin of her upper arms.

With as much strength she could muster, she rocked them backwards so she ended up back on top, her thighs on either side of his neck. She had to steady herself by leaning over him with her hands flat on the floor. It was clearly uncomfortable for him, as he had to turn his head to avoid damaging his cowl. He felt surprised at her strength.

“Careful, don’t want anything to end up broken,” she scoffed at him.

“Still think you have the upper hand?” he said, smirking. His talons already on her thighs snaked upwards. Distracted by this, she felt his legs, which were behind her come up on her shoulders to press her down to the floor. Grabbing his large foot, she twisted hard, making him reel over on his side. Standing back up, her blood pumping she brought her arm tight round his neck again, pulling him upwards. She heard his gurgled choke as she squeezed her arm harder. He pushed himself upwards dragging her with him, before bending backwards. She was smaller, lighter and he dragged her body back over his shoulder slap-bang down onto the floor. Her body smacked harshly against the floor’s plastic surface. Sweat was beaded like pearls on her forehead as she stared at the ceiling breathless. His face came into view as he bent over her.

“I was easy on you there, Laurel. Next time I won’t be.” He straightened up, still feeling playful.

“I’m out of practice,” she smiled, sitting up, smarting still.  
  
He pulled an expression that looked akin to a smile, but she couldn’t tell. He held his bare hand out, which she took. Purposely, he drew her up hard so she collided with him when standing. His other hand came to rest firmly on her lower back. She craned her neck to meet his strong, yellowy eyes. His talons snaked up towards the edges of her top, rolling the material down slowly. She kept her eyes on him as he did so, drinking him in so temptingly with those large, blue eyes. Time seemed to blend into one moment from then on. This time they didn’t bother making it up to his room, settling in front of the sofa. It was difficult not to rip her nice clothes with his cumbersome talons. Deciding it was easier, they both shred off their last garments. Her sweat comingled with his. She was touching him more now, running her delicate little fingers in places that delighted him more so than she presumed. He moved them onto his sofa, making sure she was on top. He thumbed her hard nipples, which she really seemed to like, moaning and drawing her head backwards with eyes closed.  
  
He caressed her gently, as careful as he could without gloves. Becoming more confident, she planted kisses with her lips over his skin, which seemed to thrum and ripple with each one. He burrowed his talons into her curly hair, gripping hard whenever she kissed a sweet spot. He heard her breath hitch each time he tightened his fingers. He drew her head up to meet his, nipping her neck and pressing his mouth over her thrumming pulse. Her body lay adjacent to his, and he felt his ever-increasing erection press deliciously into her soft, pliable skin. He tried kissing with her again, teasing and tempting her mouth with his own. She surprised him with a nip to his lower mandible. Caught off guard, he barely had time to catch himself. He suddenly felt all five digits of hers fondle the throbbing centre of his groin. He nearly bucked up into her, felt like throwing her to the floor and engaging in wild, rough sex. He had to hold himself back.

“Laurel….” He barely spoke. _Don’t fuck this one up,_ said that little negative voice in his head.

“Still think you have the upper hand?” she smirked.  
  
Pulling back, she kept her hand on his cock as she positioned herself above him. He was almost ready to shatter with brazen yearning. With more force than he expected, she pushed herself down onto him. The unbearable ache he felt intensified. He watched enraptured as she fucked him, bouncing on top of him, her skin flushing, her breasts with the large pink areolas springing. He stroked the sides of her hips, fingering the pleasant rolls in her skin. Her eyes soon closed in concentration, her own hands palming her breasts, spreading and rolling them like they were dough. He couldn’t help it. He came, so intensely that he bucked her off him, sending her sprawling onto the floor below. His vision fizzled as he felt his climax lessen, his breath heaving with exertion. His cum was all over his legs and on the sofa, hot and sticky. By the time he regained his senses she was already back on the sofa, smiling.

“I’m so sorry, Laurel,” he said, feeling hugely embarrassed.

“Apologise later, finish me off now,” she smirked. Oh, he was only too happy to oblige. As he lay back down with her, he worked on kissing her body again, but she stopped him. Something fearful caught in his throat.

“It’s ok,” she reassured him. She took his hand, placing it over her sex, making him use a single digit to massage the already-enlarged clitoris. It didn’t take her long to moan underneath him, pressing her hips up to meet his. He felt the trembling in her body, the beginning of her orgasm. He kept the massaging up a little longer, before he heard her cry out, and drew his finger away. He took her wrists and pushed them up above her head, lowering his mouth to her ear, feeling her writhe and struggle underneath. This intensified her orgasm and she let out a deep, passionate cry.

It was the most vocal he’d heard her. He felt her pulse beat rapidly. It took her a while to catch her breath and come down from so high a high.

“Wow,” she breathed, lying down still. He sat up on an elbow, watching her. How did he end up with a human? A human whom he tortured once, during a brief, bloody war. A human, whom despite everything, he was beginning to have feelings for. A human whom he enjoyed having sex with, perhaps going so far to say she’d been the best lay he’d had. But it felt more than a simple sexual relationship. He was too afraid to admit it. It was on the edge of his tongue, a word that frightened him deeply to the core. She was stroking his face, his mandible when he came back round from his thoughts.

“Marik?” she asked him, her voice soft. “Please…” How he wanted to expel her from his life, tell her never to see him again. He didn’t deserve her. He disliked humans, yet why was she so enticing? So interesting and beautiful to him?

“Don’t think,” he heard her whisper to him, her fingers crawling up to cup his face. Despite the wetness on their skin, she drew them together slipping into the mould his body made. _Don’t think. Just be._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello fellow readers! I'm back! I'm so, so sorry this hasn't been updated for months. I started a new job, got inspired to write something else, quit that job, shit went down, writer's block, etc. I really didn't want to be that kind of fanfiction writer, but it turns out I did! Well, I decided to finish this for good.   
> I don't know about you guys but I like listening to music as I write, and Brian Eno's 'Becalmed' is such a sweet, sad melody that seems like an appropriate fit for Laurel and Marik. Hope you enjoyed the new chapter.


	33. Chapter 33

When Marik headed into work a couple of days later, he was met with the news that Anise Carter had disappeared. Completely. She was last seen on the security footage heading towards the rapid transit cab queue, but afterwards there was nothing. Unsurprisingly wherever she’d been after that, the cameras had been sabotaged. It was clear she’d caught an illicit transport off the Citadel, which blackened her name considerably. Although Laurel was still living at his place, he hadn’t seen much of her. He knew she’d quit her job, but he presumed she was focusing on her studies. She also didn’t yet sleep in the same bed as him. She wasn’t too concerned or surprised when he told her about Anise’s disappearance.

“I _told_ you, Marik, we didn’t talk for years. I hardly recognise the person she is today,” she had told him very irritably one night. This whole situation reminded him of how strange and unprecedented this was. How did this just happen to be Laurel’s sister? How was the attack on Anise at the embassy connected with the attack on Laurel at her apartment? Something niggled at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t seem to reach whatever it was. If he hadn’t known Laurel any better, he would have suspected she was lying about her sister. But he knew she was telling the truth…. wasn’t she? Unless she was carefully guarding her emotions, it seemed she cared little for her sister.

“I don’t know, Marik,” said his colleague Pavra, kicking the back of her heels as she stood by her desk one day that week. “It seems… _too_ coincidental. Surely Laurel _must’ve_ had contact with her sister. Who do the sisters know that would carry out an attack on them?” Perhaps Laurel wasn’t telling him everything. Maybe if he opened up to her more she would do the same? Two days later, Anise’s husband, Ian Carter, was found dead. His body was found in a vent deep in the seedy part of the wards. It was a clean, single shot through his head. He hadn’t been expecting it – the exit wound was in the middle of his forehead. Whatever Anise Carter had been dabbling in was unknown to her husband – he was a manager at a human interstellar shipping company. Nothing black or unusual in his records – not that had been recorded anyway. Despite his status as an enforcement officer, he was dabbling into investigation more than he liked, much to his superior’s chagrin.

“And stop poking at the CID’s files,” Pavra later hissed to him. “You’re making us all look bad.”

“I can’t help it,” he had hissed back.

“Just because you like that human,” was Pavra’s reply. He didn’t justify her comment with an answer. In fact he liked this human enough to ask her to another military evening. He felt surprised he was still invited to them, but most people he liked to think didn’t know of his past endeavours. He wanted to keep it that way. Laurel reacted with surprise when he asked her. He felt perhaps he owed it to her after his behaviour the other night. Maybe taking her to a public event such as this would erase any doubt he had. He began to feel nervous as the evening drew closer, although for reasons he couldn’t put in words. Was it Laurel? Was it perhaps seeing Vuren again? By the time the evening came round, he came home from work to find Laurel already dressed for the evening.

“You’re home early,” she greeted him, rolling her shoulders forward as she did when shy. He’d only seen her in a dress once, and liked how this one gathered in at the waist, as well as showing off her arms and legs. He hadn’t yet made her aware that turians found the waist incredibly attractive – he was unsure how a human would perceive this. Besides, he was aware that she was often self-conscious around him. Her style was different from the current ‘fashion’ as humans and asari termed it. She was busy slipping on various types of shoes, testing them out. They looked terribly painful to walk in. She was doing her best to avoid looking at him, stabbing her foot into the shoe.

“Laurel?” he tested. She swerved round, wobbling to look at him. His eyes flicked down to her feet. She was now a few inches taller but even more round-shouldered. He couldn’t help but chuckle with laughter at her, startling her.

“Why’re you being so coy?” he said, stepping towards her and stroking her warm cheek with the back of his talon. He tried to control the rush of blood as he stood close to her, fingering her waist fondly.

“It’s not often I have to wear…”

“Horrible footwear?” he finished for her.

“But I can match your height better in these,” she protested, although he felt her already wincing.

“You’ll seriously hurt your feet,” he warned.  

Before she could hesitate, he lifted her up into his arms. He felt the breath go out of her in surprise, as he shook off her shoes. They plopped to the floor, clacking. She stiffened in his arms but relaxed as he nuzzled her.

“Better?” he purred, inhaling the scent on her neck. He felt his lower plates loosen slightly as he cradled her in his arms. _I am becoming a young man again._ _Constantly aroused._ He had to admit it was getting silly. The days he hadn’t had sex with her he masturbated. He was quite sick of making a horrible mess in the bed so he’d retreated to the shower.

“Can I not just go in jeans and shirt?” she whined, gingerly stroking the top of his cowl.

“No,” he growled into her ear, rubbing his mandibles into her hair. “Because I have to wear formal and I’m not letting you off.”

“What if I just broke the rules?” she whispered into his neck, pinching a tender spot with her surprisingly sharp teeth. For a moment his mind clouded at this bold move.  

“It would be _my_ fault as a result,” he said, his blood pumping hard in his ears. One of his hands was drifting further up her leg, making her breath hitch slightly. She had some sort of human perfume on, and while strange, it was not entirely unwelcome. Some of the other races sometimes wore perfume that was near unbearable to smell. This was subtle. Flowery.

“Well I don’t care about that,” she smiled into his neck, dragging a tongue up and under his chin. He walked towards the wall and propped her up against it.

“I’d have to punish you,” he said into her ear, making her shudder.

“You’re insatiable,” she breathed as he fondled the cushiony fat around her stomach, her thighs, and hips. Yet he could also feel her tenseness underneath him, as if she simultaneously wanted and didn’t want him. She rubbed her fingers over his back gingerly, keeping her chin on his shoulder. He knew time was getting on, and set her back down the ground. He was pretty sure regret flooded through her features. He tried not to show crushing disappointment on his face, or embarrassment. He was fully unsheathed, despite being clothed, making it uncomfortable.

“We’ll be late,” he told her, making her relax slightly. There was the same blush up her neck again. He finished getting ready, thinking about her. Did she feel afraid to touch him? Did she feel his hard plates and edges were off-putting? He had sharp teeth and talons. He’d heard many times that humans feared their appearances, which at first made him swell with pride and satisfaction. He had to admit humans were not a particularly threatening-looking species. But maybe that was his superiority talking. He felt confused by his attraction to her. Why? By all intents and purposes she should be unattractive to him. She was small; she had smooth skin and a protruding nose. Her hair was unusual – no other species had this. Her many digits on her feet and hands were alarmingly alien at times. Her flat teeth looked strange. Yet thinking these things did nothing. He was beginning to think that his feelings were going beyond attraction.

 _What?_ _You cannot be serious._

They both caught a cab to the venue, which was in a large room situated in the Citadel Tower, adorned with buffet tables, bright neon lights and a well-stocked bar. As soon as they had entered the room, Marik felt the usual stiffening of his joints. Laurel squeezed his arm, although he wasn’t sure what it meant – reassurance? She decided to get them some drinks (him non-alcoholic), passing him a glance as she went over to the bar. He greeted several old friends, many old colleagues, trying to skim over those certain details in his life that were less than savoury. Talking to old colleagues made him pine slightly for Palaven and the old days – those where he was stationed on various dreadnoughts and cruisers. He was hoping not to bump into certain individuals, Vuren namely, but also others such as his C-Sec boss or Kyra. Thankfully, before anything insidious could happen, one veteran that went by the name of Camtis Vitaso walked straight up to him.

“Absedeus Marik… now that’s a name I haven’t had the pleasure of saying in many years,” Vitaso said, craning his neck by way of greeting. Vitaso was showing his age, with slight cracks in the white markings on his dark brown face, a noticeably shrunken cowl and stiff movements. Vitaso had been his senior by a couple of ranks and had been a noble and great commander in his heyday. He had been a ruthless, strict leader, but one that Marik had greatly admired. He had been at the forefront of the Relay 314 Incident. He’d occasionally take lesser ranks under his wing – Marik had been one of them.

“I hear you are now working for C-Sec,” said Vitaso, his arms characteristically behind his back. He never drank, and despite his old age still stood tall and stiff.

“Yes sir,” replied Marik, forgetting himself. Vitaso drew a small smirk.

“You haven’t changed,” he smiled. They chatted briefly, talking about the mundane things while Marik’s insides slowly began to curl inside of him. It didn’t feel right to be talking to Vitaso. Between the years of his ‘polite demotion’ from the military and now, he hadn’t spoken to Vitaso, and he wondered just how much the turian knew about him. He began to wish the veteran would leave before Laurel returned. Unfortunately, luck was not on his side recently. _Don’t mess this up_ , his ever-present negative mind chided. _Not for Vitaso and not for Laurel._ Whom should he choose? Laurel was too busy trying to not spill the drinks to notice Vitaso as she walked up to them. She handed Marik his drink as he introduced her to Vitaso. As predicted, Vitaso eyed her with barely concealed disdain. Marik didn’t blame him – as one of the main leaders during the Incident, he’d faced the human military up front and lost a lot of soldiers. He’d encountered some fierce fighting, had been injured and had extensive surgery as a result. Vitaso flicked his dark eyes between him and Laurel.  

“And how did you two come to be… acquainted?” he asked, his arms still behind his back. There was a ten second silence that seemed to hang apprehensively in the air. He caught Laurel’s wide eyes, imploring him. For what, he didn’t know or guess. She was waiting for him to talk, probably afraid she’d say the wrong thing. After all, Vitaso was his acquaintance. Yet the words seemed to drown out anything he had prepared in his head. It was a bad idea coming here – why did he insist on playing the game? Every inch of his skin felt like it was itching.  

“Through work,” blurted Laurel. Vitaso looked undeterred by this.

“I don’t remember C-Sec employing humans,” he remarked. _Clearly he’s out of the loop,_ thought Marik. Humans had started being accepted into C-Sec’s ranks a couple of years ago. He wasn’t happy with it either, but what could he do?

“Oh I don’t work for them,” she said, taking a swig of her cocktail. “I had a break-in and Marik was the officer who dealt with it.”

“I see,” said Vitaso. “What is it that you do?” He saw her falter slightly, and then take another swig, for courage it seemed.

“I’m… in-between jobs at the moment. I used to work for a restaurant,” she told him. Vitaso made a grunt in reply.

“I see. Quite the acquaintances you make, Marik. I wouldn’t have pegged you a pioneer in interspecies relationships.” Laurel hid her smile behind her glass as she watched him. Marik felt the simultaneous prickle of anger and embarrassment. The itch grew stronger.

“Only did my duty as a C-Sec officer,” he added, causing Vitaso to look at him more sharply, with eyes narrowed.

“Yes, I imagine,” replied Vitaso. “Let’s hope you only keep _doing_ your duty.” With that, Vitaso turned to speak to another veteran, leaving Marik standing there. Laurel held out his drink.

“Keep it,” he snapped.

“Marik, please…. don’t let him get to you,” she replied quietly, her voice soft. _Don’t talk to me like a child._

“Get me something alcoholic,” he murmured. “Spirits knows I’m gonna need it.”

“Like _hell_ ,” she hissed. “You’ll turn this from something merely annoying to something catastrophic.” He couldn’t be bothered arguing with her, and turned away to the bar. He felt her eyes on his back and heard her sigh loudly as he walked up to the bar. _I don’t need her disapproval._ _Fuck them all._ He ordered reynor.

 

* * *

 

Laurel wasn’t sure why he even bothered asking her to this uptight, humanless ball. She tried reasoning with him again, but he shrugged her off, telling her to go home. She refused to let him do this to himself; getting himself drunk would only lead to more grief and humiliation. It got to the point where an asari matriarch came up to the bar, spent ages chatting with him, while she miserably sat there drinking and becoming tipsy. An unusual sort of jealousy overcame her as he chatted away to the asari. _Why does he waste time with me if I am so revolting?_

When the asari finally moved off to chat with someone else, she finally became angry with him, telling him he’d end up embarrassing himself.

“You’re causing a scene,” he hissed, turning from her back to the bar. The ‘scene’ being a turian bartender and a salarian further down. This only pissed her off further.

She flung out an arm and snatched his glass from his talons. She was going to swig it, but for someone already drunk he had lightning-fast reflexes. He painfully grabbed her arm, twisting it. She threw the drink down his suit in response. _Good. I hope it stains. And stings._ She made sure to get some in his eyes as well. He stared at her with uncharacteristically wide eyes for a moment.  Someone behind them sniggered.

“We need to talk outside,” he then hissed in her ear.

“No, we don’t,” she snapped, turning away from him and moving towards the exit. She had enough; life was too short for this. Several turians stared at her as she stormed out of the room, towards the elevator and back to the rapid transit hub. Her arm stung from where he’d grabbed it, his talons had sunk down into the fleshy skin. When she returned to his apartment, she spent a good hour soaking in the bath, crying on and off. It was easy to give into anger and destructiveness, but this time she felt just plain dismal. Like the kind of dismal where a grey filter had replaced her normal colourful view. She’d ended up falling asleep on the sofa in front of the telly when she felt warmth on her back. Laurel sat up, blinking away sleepiness to see Marik slouched beside her. She could smell the stench of reynor and the clock on the wall said it was just after midnight. Disappointment flooded through her, but she didn’t say anything.

“Vuren was there,” he began.  She knew whom he meant. The other turian he’d fist fought in her old restaurant. He started drunkenly telling her what had happened for the rest of the evening. It had been a rather boring affair until this turian showed up and announced in front of a crowd that Marik had been part of the Blue Suns for a year, explaining the absence.

“That’s done it for my reputation. What was left of it,” he said, sadness in his voice. She touched his hand briefly, giving it a squeeze, but couldn’t bring herself to say anything. She felt simultaneously fed-up and curious to know more.

“Vuren was always so keen to oust me,” he continued. “I had refused him a promotion years ago because I felt he wasn’t ready at the time. He’s held a grudge ever since.”

“It seems unlikely for a turian to hold a grudge for that long,” she said.

“Our instinct is to equate the self with the group, but of course many lack that honour. Myself included.” There was a long, dead silence. Finally, she spoke.

“Why won’t you tell me what had destroyed your reputation? What had disgraced you so?” She knew that turians’ accountability and discipline was so steeped in their culture such mistakes were highly stigmatised, especially ones that included demotion. She watched him, the dark pits for eye sockets gazing down at the floor, his metallic carapace shining in the half-light of the nearby lamp.

“I committed manslaughter a few years ago,” he told her. “I was provoked by a turian I’d disliked, and thrown him across the room with a biotic throw. He was killed instantly - his neck snapped, like a twig. Unfortunately it’d happened in a krogan-run bar and the owner was furious with the damage done. Many witnesses had seen it happen.”

“What happened after that?” she asked, on the edge of her seat with sudden anticipation. _Finally, he’s opening up to me_. Haena from her old workplace had been right, but it still shocked her that he’d killed someone instantly with biotics.

“I’m not going into all of that now,” he said, waving a talon. “But I was given a sentence back on Palaven that let me off lightly, despite my alcoholism. I had connections and status, as well as wealth, and I wanted to avoid embarrassment to the Hierarchy, as did many others.”

“I didn’t know turians could be biotic,” she confessed.

“It’s not common, and it’s mostly frowned upon. We are given separate squadrons, known as Cabals. I’ve known some brilliant biotic soldiers in my lifetime – but it is right for us to judge them. Biotic powers are dangerous and unstable.”

“That’s a bit of a sweeping statement, don’t you think?” she said. She was beginning, she felt, to step on thin ice.

“Not at all,” he admonished. “I could not master my own biotic abilities very well. They didn’t manifest as well as I’d predicted and were often out of control. Shame had permeated my soul and no matter how hard I persisted I was always going to put others in danger as a result. They later trained me as a medic.”

“Did you stay with the Cabals?” she asked him.

“No. I had my amp removed. Thankfully my leadership skills propelled me high very quickly, erasing the biotic past.”

“I don’t understand why biotics are stigmatised in your culture,” she told him, genuinely surprised.

“It’s more complicated than you think. But they are not trusted. I could’ve been sentenced to a life as a medic or maintenance officer, as my biotic abilities weren’t combat proficient. Thankfully, I managed to escape that fate.” He had walked in with a bottle, and it was resting in his other hand, which brought it up to his mouth. He slugged it back. It was hard to feel sympathy for him when he kept drinking, which was the root of his problems, it seemed.

“With a society based so much on discipline and honour, it seems a system that doesn’t forgive mistakes that easily,” she said to him.

“No, it doesn’t. Perhaps that is why we attacked you immediately all those years ago. Our military doctrine was not only to defeat an enemy but remove their threat permanently. We are methodical…. Yet I sense some of that in your own society, Laurel.”

“It varies between countries,” she said. “We are all so very different… individual.” She wanted desperately to heal that hurt in him, that humiliation and self-loathing. What could she say to a turian to make him understand? Were they really that different or had she got it all wrong? It was easy to think of what to say to a human, to gauge their emotions, to find some common ground. But with an alien? What tools did she have other than mere words?

“Marik…. I… I didn’t tell you the _whole_ truth about the nuclear probe during the war,” she began. Her heart’s pace began to speed up, as he turned his head slightly to set his gaze on her. His natural predatory features in that moment made her feel afraid. Her words suddenly dissolved in her mouth. Lovers or not, there was something still so foreign about him that unnerved her.

“What did you want to tell me, Laurel?” Her heartbeats started to thump so hard she thought they could be visible from her chest.

“I helped detonate the bomb.” His eyes looked wider than she’d ever seen them before.

“I never had the chance to properly defuse it, which was through a clunky remote-controlled device. When we found it, it was dangerously close to a turian military patrol – your ship. Before I could start defusing, Jensen shot the two other crew members, Jonesy and Kalen, in the head. He held me at gunpoint and told me to detonate it. I was foolish thinking that maybe the explosion wouldn’t hit the patrol - that it was too far away. I did as he asked.”

“Just like that? No questions asked? No retaliation?” Marik said quietly.

“Just like that.” This had the opposite effect, she realised. If anything, this was probably the worst thing she could’ve told him in this moment.

“Then how did you end up on Shanxi? How were further supply lines cut? It hadn’t been the first time,” he asked, an edge to his voice. She swallowed what felt like a rock.

“It was part of his plan to frame me, make sure he wasn’t the instigator. Our ship was armed, and he shot down your cargo freighter - made sure you wouldn’t get your provisions. The freighter put up a fight however, which shocked us both. We crashed on Shanxi, barely making it out alive. We fought, until he broke my arm and knocked me out… dragged me to a collapsed building.” A dark look crossed Marik’s face and a prickle of terror ghosted over her skin. She felt like pleading with him.

“Why did you decide to tell me this now, human?” he said icily.

“Marik… I wanted you to know that I too live with a mistake… with guilt…” Her voice broke as she spoke.

“You presume to think that my mistakes are the same as _yours_ ,” he spat. “You made me think you’d tried to fight Jensen, that you did everything in your power to stop him. Yet you didn’t. You were a coward and for that three hundred lives were lost.”

“That’s-”

“I half wished we ended up making you humans submit to us,” he spat. “Or at least make you a client race like the Volus. We were better in every sense, yet… the _Council_ …”

“Where’d that line of thinking get you?” she said, her voice wobbling. Where was her fight? “You fucked up and paid in reparations. I don’t think your pride can ever understand that.”

“My pride has nothing to do with it!” he bellowed, making her teeth rattle in her jaw. “Killing someone, anyone, is never an easy thing to get over. I am haunted by it every single day. Yet somehow your tale is cold-blooded. A single button to be pressed and boom. Gone!” Despair flooded her.

“I thought you’d understand!” she wept, tears now running in rivulets down her face. _Oh, how I loathe myself. How I wish I were dead._

“Oh I understand, alright,” he said. She saw the tension in his biceps, straining, itching to lash out.

“What else could I have done?” she cried. “It would’ve _still_ happened.” He threw himself up onto his feet, making her jump, the bottle still in his hand.

“Because of you, I was blamed for the loss of my soldiers. Not because it was my fault – because I was their leader. I was responsible! I lived with that guilt and I was punished.”

“I don’t understand why you weren’t with your patrol, on your dreadnought,” she bit out. He looked away, his talons pressing deep into the fabric of the sofa. Perhaps there was guilt in that? A survivor’s guilt?

“A major supply line for my ground-based squadron had been sabotaged before your damage. I was the nearest commanding officer. I’d already sensed a possible surrender was underway, so I trusted my XO to command my ship while I went groundside.”

“So you have survivor’s guilt,” she stated. “You weren’t with your crew.”

“You have no idea what I feel. You could not possibly understand,” he said sharply. There was a brief, stilted silence.

“I’m sorry, Marik,” she said, the fight having gone out of her. She was tired of feeling like a piece of shit.

“To hell with your apology,” he snapped, and suddenly lobbed his bottle across the room as hard as he could. It smashed against the wall several metres away. It made her jump, and she quickly got up from the sofa, attempting to exit the room. She felt him snatch her wrist, pulling her back round into his chest. She met his eyes, craning her head. His body was warm as he caged her in his arms. The alien body she’d made love to.

“What do you want me to do then, turian?” she said, not putting up a fight. Her docility seemed to disarm him and he let go of her instantly. He turned round and sat back down on the sofa.

“I have _tried_ living with the guilt,” she said, staring at the ground. He wasn’t looking up at her anymore. “I came to several points where I couldn’t. I tried to end it all. So help me God I wished you had me killed on Shanxi. I cannot do this anymore with you. I cannot heal myself, _love_ myself when I’m around you.” Laurel turned away from him and went upstairs to grab her things. She was so distraught she started to sob. By the time she came back downstairs, she saw him asleep on the sofa. She made sure all trace of her was gone. It was time to go home, for good.

 

* * *

 

 _Our military doctrine was not only to defeat an enemy but remove their threat permanently_. She tried to erase his words from her mind on the journey home. She was coming home. It had been so many, long years since she lived and breathed air that was unlike anywhere else. And it was unlike anywhere else on Earth as it was on Orkney. Would home have changed further? Would there be more buildings built on precious environmental land? Had the government allocated more funding towards public services? Had things in the country equalled out for the better? These thoughts drifted through her mind as she slept on and off during the flight back to Earth. She watched the various stations and satellites fly past, as well as other ships heading off world. It felt more than just strange after she’d landed, struggling to get used to the different gravity and the smell in the air. London had been cleaner than ever in its long tumultuous history but it still had a certain smell, warmth and feel. It didn’t take long to feel like it hadn’t been any time at all, and she felt overwhelmed all over again with the sudden loss of her mother.

Anise had been kind enough to leave her the family address before disappearing off to wherever. Her family had spent years living in England, close to the Alliance headquarters in London, but from seeing Anise’s email on her omni tool, her father now lived back home in Orkney. As she took a flight up to the small cluster of islands her emotions ricocheted between dread and relief. Dread because the last time she’d seen her father was nearly twenty years ago and relief because Earth was helping her forget about Marik. Doubt occasionally pushed itself through also, making her question why she bothered to listen to Anise. Why the hell should she come home? Despite any doubt and growing resentment for Anise, Laurel decided that coming home was the better option. Somehow as home grew closer, reality felt real again. She could stop living some half-life, some half waking dream.

 

* * *

Each part of him ached, from the tips of his cowl to the talons on his feet. Without having to guess what’d happened, he already felt shame, regret and a large dollop of self-hatred all at once. When he managed to open his eyes, Marik saw that his apartment was in total uproar. The TV screen had come off the wall and had smashed onto the floor. The remains of glass bottles were strewn everywhere, the shards twinkling brightly like confetti. Chairs had been knocked over as well as a bookcase. Some unimportant sculptures had been knocked and smashed to smithereens. It looked like a fight had occurred, but he wouldn’t be remiss to say that perhaps alcohol had won the night. He must’ve really hit the bottle hard because he couldn’t remember a damn thing and it scared him senseless. Marik hauled his aching body up to the shower room, seeing glass shards stuck in his arms and lower legs. As the warmth of the shower water ran over him, he began to remember certain things from the night.   
  
It had been utterly disastrous and he felt his mandibles curl in utter shame. He felt picking out the shards of glass from his skin was an adequate punishment, wincing at the pain. His cobalt-coloured blood trickled down with the water. He’d taken Laurel to a military veterans evening, which was a stupid idea from the off. He’d met with Vitaso as well as several others. He began drinking after meeting Vitaso, leaving Laurel by herself. She must’ve left early. Vuren had showed up. For the most part he’d been civil, but as the evening went on things became progressively worse. He still couldn’t remember much of it, but he did remember that everyone now knew the truth about his year away; the Blue Suns. He leant his forehead against the tiled wall of the shower, closing his eyes in misery. How could he escape himself? Ever since his mistake all those years ago, he’d gone from bad to worse. The Hierarchy wasn’t sure how to deal with him, with his alcoholism. Unable to ruminate further, he finished showering and dressed. He took his hand wraps from a nearby drawer and retreated to the punch bag in his fitness room. As he walked downstairs, his omni tool bleeped, signalling an email.

For the briefest, dumb moment he hoped it was Laurel. He glanced down to read it. _C-Sec._

 

* * *

 

Her father’s house was in an old, converted barn house, one that dated back to the previous century. It was surrounded by low-lying farmland, absent of any trees, which was typical as the wind constantly howled. She saw sheep and cattle behind the house, which surprised her. Was her father keeping a _farm_? It would only make sense, as there was very little else employment wise. The nearest Alliance base was miles and miles away, back on the mainland. She’d arrived in late May, just as summer was about to begin. Everything had bloomed and hadn’t yet been cut back before it became uncontrollable. She could hear coastal birds from afar as she walked down the gravel path to the front door. A cat was skulking near the hydrangeas further along the path, lifting its tail as it noticed her and meandering over. Laurel bent down to give it a stroke as she rang the door.

“What is it?” came a barely audible, gruff voice over the intercom.

“Dad, let me answer!” said another voice, a voice she presumed belonged to Fern.

“It’s Laurel,” she said, silencing them both. Her mouth felt spongy and dry. She decided that it was best to pre-warn them. Anticipation was something that made people act in certain ways. She was worried it would build up to something her father or sister couldn’t handle. She wanted it, despite her resentment and hurt, to go right. Fern, her youngest sister, opened the door. A familiar face, one that was still Fern, greeted her but a Fern that had changed significantly.

“Laur,” she said, using a nickname Laurel hadn’t heard for years. Before Laurel could say anything, her sister threw herself into her arms, squeezing the breath out of her. Her sister smelt of fresh baking.

“I’ve just made banana bread,” said Fern. Shocked at her sister’s affection, Laurel couldn’t help but draw a small smile.

“Ugh, you kept mum’s old recipe?” she asked. Her sister shrugged, turning to lead inside.

“I altered it for the better,” was her reply. Inside the house was beautiful; open and airy, with the old wooden beams that structured the house above them. On one side was the living area, a wood burner (surely it was electric?) centralising the space. On the other, was the kitchen. She glanced up to see a mezzanine above the kitchen, with a closed area on the other. Her mum would’ve loved this house; it was light, it was spacious, it was in the middle of nowhere surrounded by countryside. Before she could even register her father over in the living space, a golden retriever nearly knocked her off her feet.

“That’s Boomer,” called Fern, who was instantly making tea and serving banana bread. Laurel bent down to stroke Boomer’s long golden fur, Boomer’s large dark eyes drinking her in with immediate approval. Laurel caught a whiff of Boomer’s fur, that typical scent that belonged to certain dogs. Ah, she missed Earth’s animals. Living on space stations for so long made her forget how much she loved them; the domestic animals, the wildlife…. The Citadel, Marik, everything felt so far away and newly alien again.

“Here,” said Fern, pushing a mug of tea into Laurel’s cold hands. “I know it’s nearly June, but it’s still bloody cold up here.”

“I’ve missed it,” said Laurel, without thinking. Fern lacked the obvious glamour that Anise so carefully crafted into her late image. Back when they were younger, Fern had been the self-involved, highly-strung sibling, with mountains of friends and heaps of anxiety. She spent each waking moment trying to construct the perfect social circle and obtain perfect grades alongside. Now, like Laurel she wore very little makeup, and made do with a jumper that had permanent dog fur stuck to it and relaxed jeans. Her hair, curly (unfortunately) like her two other sisters, had been left to its natural state, although it was evidently damaged from years of straightening and God-knows-what-else.

“You look like me,” smiled Laurel, forgetting she was staring at her sister so closely. She then bit into the bread. “Wow, this is nice! You might’ve converted me.”

“I found loads of mum’s old recipes when we moved out several years ago. I found that amazing one – you know the one – the blue cheese and leek pasta? God, that was so delicious,” Fern smiled. Her skin was sun-kissed; much like Laurel’s had been at one time, with rosy cheeks probably as a result of the constant fresh, sea air around them. Fern guided them to the living area, where their father was noticeably absent.

“He’s upstairs these days, bedbound. He’s obsessed with people bothering us so he’s hooked his omni tool up to the door,” said Fern, curling onto the sofa.

“This is a really lovely house,” confessed Laurel. “How long have you been living here?”

“Only five years. Dad’s pension came in and well… let’s just say he’s comfortable. Being high up in the military does nice things for your bank account.”

“I’ll bet,” murmured Laurel, sipping the tea. They were quiet for a little while, and Laurel tried to enjoy the peacefulness while it lasted. Boomer jumped up on the sofa next to her, snuggling into her side.

“She likes you,” said Fern.

“She likes everyone, she’s a retriever,” replied Laurel, giving Boomer a rub around the ears.

“It took her months for her to do that to me,” replied Fern. Silence surrounded them once more. _It’s time to ask the question, Laurel. It’s now or never._

“How is Dad?”

“He’s doing… ok,” said Fern. “He’s been retired for a few years now. He’s got quite an aggressive form of cancer. It’s been treated for now and he’s recovering, but they said it could make a comeback.”

“I’m sorry you’ve been left to deal with it all,” said Laurel quietly.

“Don’t be silly,” replied her sister. “You’ve no need to be sorry. Was Anise the one to convince you to come here?”

“She seemed to threaten me with ‘dad is dying’ and you couldn’t look after him anymore.” Fern’s brow crossed.

“Only because she didn’t want to come back herself,” she replied with annoyance. Laurel sipped the tea, savouring the taste. Things tasted different here. It was probably the water, and the milk – milk being something she hadn’t had in a long, long time. They spent a long time talking on the sofa, although the space-time lag was making her feel progressively dozy. Laurel couldn’t help but feel somewhat awkward at first, her body tense and stiff even if the dog snuggled into her. Fern, on the other hand, seemed very relaxed. She was still her youngest sister, but she had completely changed. Apparently Anise had been correct in saying that their father refused any carers. Fern said it was hard looking after him, but she said she wanted to.

“I wasn’t there for mum.”

As they continued to talk, sorrow overcame Laurel and she tried to rein in her tears. She didn’t want the attention, the possible affection that might be the result. Fern was doing better than she was before, working as a travel writer for a small company, after having ‘eleven jobs in eleven years.’ She was dating someone she knew from her local exercise class. She was glad to live where she was, despite it being isolated (still, after all this time). They didn’t know what to do with all that time that had been lost. Fern seemed to regret, as did everyone else, the time not spent with their real mother. Emma, their former stepmother, had divorced their father a year after he retired. Laurel couldn’t say she was sorry. Emma, like their father, was cold and aloof with added snobbishness. They talked well into the evening; Laurel having filled in Fern the details of her life, missing certain things out.

Fern didn’t question her about the war, about what had happened to her in prison, whether she was really responsible for what she’d been framed for. She seemed to know, somehow, the truth. Fern cooked them a meal, taking her father’s up to his room on the mezzanine level, and eating hers with Laurel downstairs. Laurel suspected that her father was avoiding coming down to see her – despite what Fern had said about him being bedbound. And it was becoming harder, the longer she sat there chatting to Fern, to acquire the courage to go upstairs. Fern seemed to sense this however, and told her they didn’t have to rush. Surprised, Laurel took this advice to heart and spent the rest of the evening drinking homemade cocktails while watching the latest films on the large screen in the living area. The alcohol loosened her up slightly, even answering Fern’s questions about her time spent between prison and now.

“Nothing but a bunch of waitressing jobs on the Citadel,” she said, watching a film about an asari disguised as a human, trying to fit in.  She tried not to let the feeling of worthlessness seep in like it usually did.

“I’m sorry I never came to see you while you were in prison…” Fern suddenly said after a few moments of silence, watching the screen in front. Laurel turned to look at her, her glass now empty in her hand and her heard swilling pleasantly. _You’re going to open up, aren’t you? You’ve had two glasses and already feel like spilling._

“S’ok. Getting a flight offworld for a teenager to an Alliance space prison ain’t easy,” she replied.

“What you did….”

“Fern, look, now isn’t the time,” sighed Laurel, feeling a surge of something, something painful, about to rise out of her. It was temptingly easy to crush the champagne-style glass in her hand.

“I just want to say that I know you didn’t do it,” Fern said, ignoring her sister’s protests. She had a lot more to drink than Laurel, although Laurel had always known her as slightly weak when it came to drinking. Laurel turned to smile at her weakly. _This is not what I wanted to discuss. But I guess it would come up._

“And Mum knew as well. I wish you could get some justice for what happened.” Laurel swigged the last of her drink.

“The past is past,” replied Laurel. The mood had quietened, perhaps soured after that. They exchanged a few words before Laurel settled down to sleep. She slept on the sofa bed facing the patio doors out onto the garden, overlooking the night sky. She thought of Marik. A turian. A turian whom she _slept_ with. Who had peeled her clothes off and pleasured her most intimately, brought her a release she’d never felt before. She thought about his body, his totally alien body that bore little relation to hers. The hard and soft plates of his skin, pliable like leather, springy like foam. Skin that she was cautious to touch. Skin that was tougher than hers – skin that had made her own bleed. Eyes that burnt right through to her soul, a stare that still made her feel cautious, afraid. It was hard to believe that he wanted her, more than she him – at first anyway. It felt awkward for her still. Not only because he was turian. Because of what had happened during the war. Did he remind her of that terrible time? Of course he did. And it was harder to accept that despite everything she wanted sex with him again.

 

* * *

 

 Absedeus Marik had been requested to attend Executor Pallin’s office a day later, after he received his initial message from C-Sec. Thankfully, the C-Sec message had been from Pavra, although he knew his meeting with Pallin would not prove fruitful in the slightest. Executor Pallin was the head of Citadel security and a liason between C-Sec and the Council. For such a prominent figure to request a sudden meeting set Marik’s teeth on edge and his plates to quiver in unease. He wasn’t due to go into work for another day, but Pavra’s message was also something that made him anxious. It wasn’t surprising that she knew, as she would’ve had to deal with it at the time back at the offices. _They found that Anise Carter worked for Cerberus._ Would Laurel be shocked by this? She seemed to hold no affection or regard for her sibling – he was beginning to understand this. It seemed Anise had cut off contact with her sister many years ago, just as their father did. He knew it would trouble Laurel, perhaps for the same reason as him; Anise was a diplomat specialising in interspecies alliances. _Had she been supplying Cerberus with sensitive information?_ He knew little of Cerberus but he knew enough: a terrorist pro-human group with a notorious history. He’d known about them before their first public story, which was their failed attempt to steal antimatter from a human cruiser back in 2165.   
  
It seemed Cerberus, despite their belief in ‘human ascension’, committed more acts of terrorism against their own than any other species. He viewed this poxy paramilitary with nothing but cold disdain. No other race had such a group, although he viewed the ideals of the Batarian Hegemony with equal disdain. Humanity had a lot in common with the batarians, whether they liked it or not. _Laurel wouldn’t agree_. Of course she wouldn’t, he grumbled to himself as he took a skycar to Pallin’s office at the far end of the Presidium. He made sure to put on his best clothes and appear presentable – not the drunken merc that everyone now knew him to be. He nodded at the receptionist, who waved him in, saying he was expected. Marik tried not to feel surprised as he was twenty minutes early. Executor Pallin was a severe-looking turian, his plates sharp and rugged with his clothing carrying the weight of superiority. His colony markings were white and mostly covered the top half of his face, so it was difficult to look him in the eyes – which were very sharp in contrast. He was well known (although many turians had this trait) for his rigidity, unwavering in his resolve. He was also outspoken in his political opinions, one that did not favour human’s rapid advancement, more so than others in similar positions who had learnt to live and let live. Marik tried to tell himself he could be forgiven for feeling sudden heart palpitations and weakness in his spurs. However, despite his status, Pallin was not one for rudeness.

“General Marik,” he greeted him, giving him a salute. This surprised Marik who faltered slightly as he returned the salute, feeling something crack as he straightened his back and legs to attention. General had been the last ‘official’ title before his court sentence.

“An honour, sir,” he replied. He’d never personally met Executor Pallin, especially since he was a lower rank in C-Sec.

“Take a seat, Marik,” Pallin offered him, sitting down in his own behind his desk. Despite his taller height, Marik still felt incontestably small in the presence of Pallin.

“Thank you sir,” Marik replied, the feeling of fear having not grown smaller. Pallin observed him for a moment, and cleared his throat.

“You’ve done a great many things for the Hierarchy,” he began. “Your outstanding service has been indisputable. Your achievements are impressive – originally a biotic, then a trained doctor and soon rising up to the title of General from regular infantry? Despite your various mistakes, the way you handled the events of the Relay 314 Incident is to be commended.” Pallin paused, his beady eyes sucking in Marik.

“Thank you, sir,” he repeated. Pallin interlinked his talons.

“But I haven’t called you into this office to offer mere praise. Quite frankly, I am disturbed by what I have heard of you. I’d like you to set my mind at ease,” he said.

“By doing what?” Marik asked, even though he knew. “Sir,” he quickly added.

“I’d like you to dispel the rumours I have heard,” said Pallin, the hint of poison in his deeply guttural voice. Marik was about to open his mouth to further prod Pallin, but the turian cut him off.

“You have already proved that your alcoholism has led to unfortunate consequences, namely the death of another. Despite the Hierarchy’s somewhat too-lenient punishment you still continued with your habit, knowing fully well what the consequences would be. You were helped, you were warned, yet you persisted.”

“May I speak freely, sir?” Marik cut in quickly. Pallin’s mandibles flared in warning.

“You may not,” he said, a chill in his voice. “You have disgraced yourself, Marik. I use your term ‘General’ only because I am to remain civil. You have caused a great deal of embarrassment on the Citadel. When I heard of your employment with C-Sec I thought you had taken a turn for the better. Then I hear reports of your drunkenness in public, which rose to a brawl at a restaurant. But _now_ I am hearing further reports of you - a once decorated military general - having worked for the _Blue Suns_. I implore you to challenge such rumours.” Pallin gave off a certain scent that just warned of hostility and not of the physical kind. Marik’s shoulders slumped in defeat, knowing that to argue with Pallin was pointless and arrogant if he should do so.

“The rumours…. are true, sir. I was in their service for a year,” he said, with a steady voice. Pallin impatiently expelled air through his nostrils.

“I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt, I really did,” said Pallin. “But since these rumours arose from a veterans evening where you became embarrassingly drunk, _again_ , I am somewhat inclined to believe them.” Marik wanted the floor to swallow him up. His plates became cold with the feeling of shame, utter shame that made him want to end it all then and there. _Maybe mercenary work is the only way I can feel accepted. Feel like I can use my power. Use it to an end that is unconstrained by prejudice and blind submission._ Pallin stood up from his desk, to which Marik mirrored, standing as straight as he could.

“Although it is within my power, I will not exercise it. I’ll grant you this small mercy; willingly terminate your employment with C-Sec. I do not want you cause any further shame and embarrassment. The humans will use anything against us in order to get their oar in. Your misbehaviour is not an excuse I want to give them.” It was difficult not to let this insult sting, but he knew that the Executor was ultimately right. Pallin said nothing for a few minutes, having gone back to his terminal screen.

“I understand, sir.” Pallin gave it another minute before looking back up at Marik. Pallin’s mandibles twitched and he bounced a knee with what looked like tense impatience.

“I would also like you to dispel the somewhat disturbing rumours I’ve heard – about you being involved sexually with a human. Please do _not_ tell me this is true.” Pallin’s face was contorted, his mandibles pulled tight with revulsion. As if things couldn’t be any worse. Marik’s shoulders slumped, resisting the urge to bury his head in his hands.

“I-I… am,” he stammered, not meeting Pallin’s eyes.

“I see,” the Executor answered. The silence was insufferable. “While I do not usually give a damn about your sex life, I am concerned about _this_ one. As a public figure it is your duty to maintain a respectable, consistent image. For all your other misdemeanours, this one could carry potential political ramifications if things were to go south.”

“I don’t understand,” replied Marik. Pallin’s nostrils flared somewhat.

“Don’t play dumb with me. It’s been thirteen years-”

“Yes, exactly, thirteen years,” Marik cut him off.

“Barely enough time to understand one another. Do not tell me you are suddenly ready to accept such an aggressive species and their current agenda.”

“I don’t see how fucking’s got anything to do with it,” snapped Marik.

“Hold your tongue,” Pallin barked. A brief silence that seemed to last eternity. Pallin tilted his head a little.

“It’s not just sex though… is it, General?” Marik kept his mouth close this time, furious that the Executor had shamed him like this. He couldn’t disobey the high official. It wasn’t in his blood, in his genes. It would go against everything. _Haven’t you betrayed all that, anyway?_ The negative voice in his head was unrelenting. His worst enemy. Before Marik could get up and salute the Executor goodbye, Pallin spoke.

“I still hold great respect for you, Marik.” Marik stiffened, his back still turned. He counted to five and turned round.

“But I expect you to take heed of my words.”

“Thank you sir,” said Marik, trying to keep his anger and despair out of his subharmonics.

“Dismissed,” Pallin then cut him off before he could say anymore. He felt Pallin’s eyes burn into his back as he left the office. It was tempting to just find a bar, but despair flooded him like nothing else. He returned home. What could he do? He felt like smashing the place up. He wanted to drink, spirits he wanted a drink so badly. The pain and shame would go away. What did he say to her before she left? Where had she gone? It had been something cruel, no doubt. Something that had driven her away without saying goodbye, without leaving him a message. It had only taken until now for him to contemplate it properly.

Back home, Marik stripped himself of his clothing, dumping it on the floor and ran a bath, perhaps hoping to drown in it. If he ran it hot enough, after making a strong caffeinated beverage, maybe it would take away the impulse to drink. His muscles were tense and there was a distinct ache in his spurs and arms. Lowering himself into the incredibly hot water (more than a human could stand), he suddenly remembered what had happened that night. He’d called her a coward. She had opened up to him; told him possibly something she hadn’t told anyone else, and he’d thrown it back in her face. He had become drunk at the veterans evening and flirted with another asari. She tried to stop him from drinking, but he’d been rude to her. He submerged himself into the water, letting it envelop his senses. After opening his eyes, he looked at the tiled wall of the bath. They’d made love here. He had taken her from behind, enclosing her body with his, pushing her hard against the wall. Consumed her. She was so much more pliable, softer, more rounded than a turian. She felt tighter, yet with a remarkable suppleness that welcomed him. He felt himself growing briefly aroused despite his pain.

What else? Marik had become drawn to her, and not just sexually. He couldn’t place a finger on it. Her resilience? Her kindness? She’d been so aloof at the start yet slowly she’d unravelled, revealing a playfulness he’d never seen before. He didn’t deserve her.  He thought of ways he could tell her that they shouldn’t carry on. _I’m sorry, Laurel. I cannot be what you or I need me to be. I tried to block you out of my mind all those years ago. I succeeded. I’m sorry I forgot you._

Despair clenched his jaw, made his eyes sting. He threw his coffee at the wall, where it shattered loudly. He punched the tiles of the bath wall. The tiles cracked, one by one.

 

* * *

 

On the second night, Laurel decided to go out with Fern. They took a skytrain to the nearest city on the mainland, after having dinner and dressed up for the night. Laurel had enjoyed her time spent home more than she’d thought she would. During the day they had gone on a long walk, enjoying the country scenery of their birthplace. Fern thankfully hired a nurse hours before, although she decided to avoid telling their dad for obvious reasons. They went to a popular nightclub district, which was bright and alive with countless people, all dressed up, milling around inside and out. Laurel wasn’t keen on getting drunk, but she knew her sister had downed a couple of glasses of spirit while they got ready. They found a fairly quiet bar to begin with, tucked down the end of the long street away from the noise and brightness of the district. Places like this certainly were better cared for than what she’d seen before…. although the last time she’d been clubbing on Earth it had been in London, and it had been over thirteen years. Fern ordered them a large cocktail pitcher and they found themselves a booth in a far corner. The place was decorated with synthetic cherry blossom and fairy lights with the tables and chairs made out of smooth, chromatic materials that caught the light.

“This is a nice place,” commented Laurel, taking her first sip from the pitcher. The daiquiri went down a treat, making her taste buds tingle. Fern’s long earrings glittered in the dim light.

“I like to start here,” she smiled. “Start nice and quiet…”

“I’m not getting drunk, Fern,” said Laurel, raising her eyebrows.

“We’ll see,” Fern quipped. Fortunately they didn’t run out of things to say. At first it was light and jovial, but as the pitcher’s contents slowly went down, it became more serious. They’d spent a couple of hours drinking cocktail after cocktail, with the bar significantly busier now. With the pleasurable light-headedness and energy now felt in her body, Laurel proved her own words wrong.

“I told you,” said Fern, laughing. It was like they were catching up on lost time, and Laurel briefly longed for the days when she used to sneak out when sixteen. When she used to go drinking with friends, when she tried drugs and had casual sex. But there was always something about casual sex that left a bitter aftertaste. And the drugs always made her feel much, much worse afterwards, as did the alcohol. And her bank account was always drained. She ignored the old memories. By the time she fully opened up to her sister, they were in a bathroom in another nightclub, with no clue how they got there. The music next door was booming. A cleaner was mopping up vomit on the floor. A couple of women sat next to them on the washbasin were laughing and crying. There was makeup smeared all over the mirror. Fern touched up her hair and attempted her lipstick again.

“I’m confused about someone,” Laurel finally slurred. She felt relieved at having said it, as if her chest would’ve burst.

“Finally,” moaned Fern. “I thought it’d take you forever until you told me about any new squeezes.” Laurel leaned against the mirror, gazing distantly at the two other women.

“So? Who is it!?”

“A man.”

“Oooookay, first part out of the way. Who is he?” asked Fern, eyes wide with curiosity and alcohol. _Argh, I shouldn’t have said anything_. Laurel, despite the alcohol, could feel her cheeks and neck warming. Shame permeated her, making her feel flushed and hot, more so than she already was in a sticky, sweaty club. She knew Fern would never let go of the subject however, especially not tonight.

“I slept with… a turian.” Fern’s eyes were so big they looked like they were going to pop out of her head. Her mouth dropped open a little. Laurel pressed the back of her hands to her cheeks, feeling as if they were on fire. Fern’s eyes were still huge, like saucers.

“Ugh, I knew I shouldn’t have said anything,” murmured Laurel, beginning to turn away.

“No! No no no,” began Fern, taking her by the arm and pulling her back round. “I’m not…. I’m just, well, wow!” Laurel crossed her arms, eyebrows raised.

“‘Well wow’? Is that a euphemism for ‘well, gross?”

“Hah! No! What was it _like_? How did it work? Did you have to buy anything for it? What did he look like? Is he like a human?”

“Just… put the brakes on,” laughed Laurel.

“I’ve never… I’ve never seen another species! Yet you’ve had sex with one!” Fern’s voice was a little too loud with excitement. Thankfully, everyone was too drunk and too busy crying, vomiting or cackling with laughter.

“I’ve seen them on the news, in the media, on film and stuff…. but in real life? Wow… what’s he like? What’s his name? What does he do?”

“You never saw an asari, salarian or turian while we were in London?” scoffed Laurel.

“Not up close! Besides I’ve been living here all my adult life!” squeaked Fern. “So what’s his name?!”

“I, uh, his name is Marik,” replied Laurel, unable to hide her smile.

“Marik! Are you not… scared a bit when you guys have sex?”

“Um… no?” laughed Laurel.

“Well, I used to find turians scary when I was younger… I thought salarians were cute. Krogan were bloody terrifying. Asari are like us… The hanar! I remember dad bringing me a hanar stuffed toy back from the Citadel once…. I think it was asari handmade or something…”

“The sex was painful at the start,” continued Laurel. “He… he has plate-like skin. We didn’t think of it… well my thighs were badly chafed afterwards, but he felt…” Laurel trailed off again, her embarrassment rising once more.

“Felt what?! Was it good?”

“It was… pretty great,” replied Laurel. Fern punched her lightly on the arm.

“Since when did you turn into such a prude, Laur?!”

“Since I fell in love with an alien,” laughed Laurel. Fern, even when drunk, didn’t miss a thing.

“You’re in love with him??” exclaimed Fern loudly. A snigger was heard from behind them. _Oh god. I must be really drunk now._

“No of course not,” she slurred in reply. _Here’s hoping Fern will forget about this in the morning._ She had to admit she admired her sister’s complete lack of judgement.

“What does he do?” asked Fern, sitting up on the washbasin now.

“He works for C-Sec, the Citadel’s version of the police,” said Laurel.

“Oh my god, this sounds like some sort of telly drama!” exclaimed Fern, clapping her hands. Laurel shook her head, suddenly feeling horribly sad. _It’s just the alcohol, ignore it._ She didn’t say anything until Fern caught on. Fern dragged them out the back, where everyone was smoking or getting some fresh air.

“So. It’s complicated?” Fern asked once they were in a small, tucked-away corner, underneath a light emitting pleasant warmth and light.

“I… Well, he’s a turian for a start,” laughed Laurel. _God I’m drunk and need a cigarette._ She managed to nab one off another smoker, and lit it up immediately. Her head felt even lighter at this point.

“Yeah. I guess things are still a bit sour at the moment,” replied Fern. “But… I’m surprised. You faced them during the war, didn’t you?” Laurel took another drag, inhaling deeply. She let out the smoke through her nostrils, preparing herself.

“That’s when I met him,” she replied. Fern knitted her brows in confusion.

“You met him during the war?”

“I was interrogated by him.” There was a still silence, despite the noise around them. Fern looked shocked.

“Give me your hand,” she suddenly said. Laurel tried to brush her off, but Fern was adamant, grabbing her free hand and spreading out the misaligned fingers.

“What… Did they?” Fern’s hands were warm as she held hands gently.

“He was their captain. His small unit captured me on Shanxi. The remainder of his soldiers were the ones killed by the probe. He was angry, rightfully so, I guess. But…” Fern’s eyes filled with immediate tears.

“Oh Laurel…”

“You’re such a goddamn baby,” Laurel replied, smiling while enveloping her sister in a tight hug. But she couldn’t help herself; the tears came to her eyes as she hugged her sister. Maybe it was the alcohol, but this time Laurel felt it more than ever.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the new chapter! Let me know what you think. I promise they will kiss and make up soon ;D


	34. Chapter 34

The next morning, Laurel felt the old, familiar feeling of nausea and dehydration. She shakily walked to the bathroom to vomit the contents of last night’s excursion into the toilet bowl and fumbled in the kitchen for some painkillers. Deciding it was better now she was up, she began to make tea. There was a creak behind her and Fern appeared, blanket curled around her body, still dressed in last night’s clothes. She had taken off her makeup, but her hair resembled something close to a raptor’s nest. Laurel could guess accurately hers probably appeared the same. She offered Fern a tea, to which the girl enthusiastically nodded. They didn’t say much, both feeling their hangovers intensely. Laurel, unfortunately, could remember all of the night and she remembered what she had told Fern. It was difficult not to feel embarrassment. _This is why you don’t drink._ Hoping to put off the inevitable conversation a little longer, she went to the shower to freshen up. By the time she came back, Fern had changed but was still curled up on the sofa, flicking through the extranet on a tablet.

“Just checking the social media channels,” Fern told her without looking up. “I sometimes tend to post incredibly awkward, embarrassing things online when drunk. Last time, it cost me a friend. The time before, a job.” Laurel sniggered as she sat down next to her.

“Wow, that’s…”

“Pretty bad, I know. I always think I’m going to have such a nice, chilled out time but then it just…gets out of hand.”

“Well I had a really nice time last night, Fern,” smiled Laurel. Fern put down the tablet, pulling a small smile also.

“Me too, Laur,” she said, taking Laurel’s hand and squeezing it. “You’re nothing close to whom I’d imagined, to what dad or Anise or Emma said about you. Mum was right all along.” Laurel glanced up at the mezzanine floor, knowing she’d have to see her father at some point today.

“Do you remember all of last night?” she asked. Fern gave her a small nod, and then squeezed her hand again. A few minutes later, Fern spoke.

“Why are you so afraid?” she asked. Laurel frowned as she turned to look at Fern in surprise.

“Of what?”

“Of him,” replied Fern, her face serious. “Of Marik?” Laurel blinked several times, her defences rising slightly. Fern must’ve forgotten some of their conversation last night, particularly the part where she said she’d first met Marik as a prisoner during the war.

“I’m-I’m not,” she said. Fern bit her lip in thought and they fell silent again.

“He’s….he’s said some awful things to me, Fern. He has so much resentment towards humans, which is quite common. But when he drinks, he gets so angry, and directs all that prejudice towards me. I tried opening up to him….and it backfired.”

“How?”

“He…his race are so… They have this sense of public duty, this honour. He saw the death of his men as his fault. There are other things too - he’s disgraced within his society. He has to drink to keep his feelings of shame at bay and I don’t know what to do….”

“Do they not treat alcoholism?” asked Fern.

“I don’t honestly know. It’s hard to gauge them sometimes, they’re so…. _stiff_. Even if they did, he hasn’t done anything about it. He’s so inconsistent. One minute he’s being totally romantic, making me dinner, being affectionate, doing small things for me and then bam! He’s slips into defensive nasty mode.”

“He sounds very troubled,” commented Fern. “And unwilling to let go. What…happened between you two exactly?” So Laurel, for the first time, decided to recount the entire story. She’d never told anyone else about this before and not in full detail. She told Fern that Marik had her tortured during the First Contact War. How she bumped into him ten years later on the Citadel, while she was working in a bar. How she ended up on Omega by accident, due to an ex. That during her time on Omega, she was at her lowest, selling drugs to make money. That she later ended up being tangled in with the Blue Suns, and _he_ just happened to work for them. She told Fern about Jensen and the casino and the later time spent with Marik. How he’d patched her up because he was a trained medic….

By the time she finished, her heart and mind felt squeezed of energy.

“I…I don’t know what to say, Laur,” began Fern. “With your past and his drinking I don’t think it’s healthy. He doesn’t respect himself or you, by the sounds of it. It’s difficult to judge because he’s not a human. I’m sure deep down he is a good man….er, turian.”  Fern looked deep in thought.

“He didn’t remember me for ages…it took a while before he realised I was the one he tortured!”

“He wasn’t the one who tortured you though…” Fern said. Laurel frowned.

“He was in _charge_ , he ordered it. He made my life a living hell for…a week or longer? You should’ve seen what I looked like when the Alliance finally picked me up…” They both fell silent for a long while, deep in thought.

“Give it time, “ replied Fern eventually. “You guys just need to get off the Citadel, find somewhere else. That place has too many memories for you.” Laurel nodded, knowing her sister was right. In fact, it was an idea that surprised her – why hadn’t she thought of it before? Laurel smiled at her.

“I’m so glad I came to see you,” she told her sister.

“I just wish we had arranged it sooner. And with Mum still alive,” said Fern. She glanced over at a photograph framed on a nearby sideboard. “ _God_ , her optimism was annoying. Whenever we complained we didn’t have enough money for this or that, she’d say, ‘but we’re rich in love.’” Laurel laughed.

“Not many women do what she did. Just told society to fuck off with their expectations. Even if it meant leaving us,” said Laurel. They both laughed together.

* * *

 

When he returned to work a day later, reporters bombarded Marik by the entrance to work. Someone, with a sharp heel, had stood on the soft fleshy part of his foot (he wasn’t wearing armour) and his vision briefly went blue with pain.

“Officer! Officer!” they yelled and screeched in his ear as he tried to force his way to the entrance lift where he could scan his ID card.

“Do you know anything about Anise Carter and her connection to human terrorist group Cerberus?”

“As a previous diplomat, how do you think her involvement will have an impact on relations between humans and the Council species?”

“Do you have any idea what information was stolen from Anise Carter’s office months earlier?”

Thankfully his boss, Tunas Adracus, was by the entrance, his omni tool by the lift’s button to force the door closed.

“Have some decorum!” he bellowed. “Get back!” Marik pushed his way through, partially helped by Adracus, who forced the doors shut immediately.

“Good morning, sir,” said Marik, standing straight and saluting as they rode the lift down to C-Sec.

“Not a good morning, Marik,” his boss grumbled in reply. “This entire Anise Carter-Cerberus investigation is aging my plates. We’ve found some disturbing news. I’ll brief you when we are in my office.” It was not good timing. Marik had his letter of resignation, his speech, everything, all ready. He knew Executor Pallin was right, and that it was best if he left. He needed to sort his life out. Adracus didn’t give him time to prepare, however. As soon they stepped inside his office, the turian didn’t hold his breath, his talons clenched in anxiety. Anise Carter had been working for Cerberus for a number of years, supplying them with highly confidential information about Council operations.

“And not just any kind of information,” Adracus said, waving his arm in anger. “Council _SPECTRE_ operations. Top level, top priority, _top-secret_ missions. They’ve sabotaged countless years of work on various colonies, stolen resources and murdered without remorse. They’ve tried to sever alliances and treaties, destroying confidence.  It’s been happening for several years now - ever since she became the Interstellar Alliance Consulate.” After the discussion, which was interrupted by a call from the Council, several C-Sec officers were discussing the situation, enraged by a single human sabotaging their alliances and opportunities. _There must be more to this,_ he thought, trying to ignore the angry remarks of his fellow colleagues. Pavra was one of them, shrugging him off when he tried to reason with her. He paced beside his desk with worry, deep in thought.  _If this were made public….things could go south, ever so quickly._ He approached Adracus again, as soon as he could.

“With all due respect, this information cannot be made public,” he stated.

“There has to be justice,” Adracus snapped. “If humans are to suffer for it, so be it. They have brought it on themselves for allowing such xenophobic organisations to exist.”

“Which I am well aware of,” replied Marik. “But this would prove devastating for the alliance between us and the humans. We will not know the repercussions. The Council will want-”

“To do things the diplomatic way,” Adracus sighed. Marik spent most of his day trying to help Adracus, convince him, and clear the outside of the building of news reporters. By the end of the day, he collapsed in bed without dinner realising he hadn’t handed in his resignation. _Tomorrow._

* * *

 

Her father looked very frail as he lay there in bed. His chest was sunken underneath his gown, and his hair was thinning considerably. His skin was peppered with age spots and his skin drooped in places where it shouldn’t. He was kept upright by a wealth of pillows and cushions behind him, with a side table that swung round to face him and a television screen opposite on the wall. The windows in the side of the roof were large and offered plenty of light and a beautiful view. She hadn’t seen her father for so long, she nearly didn’t recognise him. The hair that did remain still curled rebelliously, curls she’d inherited.

“Laurel…” he said, voice soft but gravelly. _What do I say? How do I act?_ Laurel felt so nervous, like a child again, in this moment. As she glanced at him, his eyes had changed their colour, the whiteness gone and replaced with a sickly yellowness.

“Hi dad,” she replied, taking up a comfy seat next to him. There was a crocheted blanket hung on the back of the chair, a sign Fern had spent many nights curled up here. His breathing was stunted; a gargle could be heard at the back of his throat. He had a breathing tube hooked into his nose. The inside of the tube was brown. He was in a much worse condition than Fern had said. Why had she been lying? Anise had been right then.

“Dad…Do you need me to call for someone?” she asked. She saw he was hooked up to an IV drip – morphine? He shook his head, raising his hand. The back of his hand was tinged with purple and green, where a nurse had struggled consistently to find a good vein. He signalled towards the nearby chair, which she promptly sat herself in.

“You look…so well,” he croaked, turning his head to look at her. There was an increasingly large lump felt in her throat. She didn’t know what to say. It’d been nearly been twenty years since she’d last spoken to him.

“I’m so….sorry, Laurel,” he breathed. “I regret…every…thing I did.” Laurel took hold of his hand and squeezed hard. Tears came to her eyes.

“It’s ok, dad,” she whispered.

“No…it’s not…I wasn’t…there for…you.” He was rapidly growing weaker with each breath.

“It doesn’t matter now,” Laurel told him. “What matters is the present.” Her father seemed to stare straight at her, his breaths dying down. The pulse was still going very fast in his neck, and as Laurel sat there, she knew the worst was about to happen. She called for Fern, realising that his bad condition had probably happened quicker than they thought. With a few more stunted gargles and his breathing becoming slower, Michael Westfahl finally died in his own bed.

* * *

 

**6 months later**

Things had calmed down significantly since the media had somehow got hold of the truth about Anise Carter. It was chaos in the streets as turians and other species took to the streets to protest against Cerberus – or perhaps humanity’s overall aggression and expansion. They wanted the human embassy to be ousted as a suitable punishment for what had happened. In all circumstances this seemed adequate. It had proved quite devastating for the alliance between turians and humans, with the amount of crimes involving humans having gone up by sixty percent. Absedeus Marik had to admit he felt remorse for the victims of these crimes – usually innocent civilians who were trying to get on despite the chaotic atmosphere. He was also glad that he’d left C-Sec many months earlier, happy to not have to deal with breaking up fights and protests, arresting suspects or nearly being shot every other day by a trigger-happy idiot. His omni tool bleeped as he sat in a small café in the Presidium, looking over the lake that shimmered in the bright light. Putting down his cup of tea, he glanced to see it was a message from Laurel. His heart clenched, clenched harder than he thought it would. She hadn’t spoken to him for six months, unable to take it anymore. He had occasionally sent her messages, asking her how she was but he heard nothing. He didn’t blame her. All he could do was ignore his feelings as he started to rebuild his life. He had tried to come to terms with the addiction that had swallowed up so many years of his life. Leaving C-Sec, her leaving to go back to Earth, it seemed to be a catalyst for change.  
  
So many things he had used as an excuse before to keep the drinks coming. If only there was a reset button on his compulsions, emotions and history. Everyone knew he was trouble now; although they didn’t realise that most of the times he didn’t _want_ to get into these horrible states. The only way he could show distress was getting into horrible states. He had chosen alcohol over friends, over family. Too many nights he’d spent alone, drinking in his lonely apartment, filling the void with alcohol and anxiety. He knew the worst thing was not to do with anything outside – it was all in his head. He had tried sobriety twice before – but he hadn’t made that his main goal. Now, he had to focus on that before anything else. The treatment centre he had been referred to was actually human-run. The asari had relatively few addicts, perhaps because their lives stretched infinitely. The same could be said for salarians, but in reverse. The other patients were mostly human, turian and a couple of krogan. The treatment centre smelt of acetone, a sign that the inhabitants’ organs were struggling to process toxins, pushing the poison out from their skin. It was a smell that would stay with him forever. He looked down at his omni tool again, hearing it bleep for the second time. It was Laurel again, wanting to meet at a café they both knew. _So she wants it to be strictly formal._ He had hoped she’d asked to meet him at his apartment, but perhaps that was too wishful for him. It felt less personal outside his home. He’d grown to loathe the Citadel.

It was two days later when Marik had met up with Laurel.  
  
He had buffed his fringe, filed his talons, picked out something smart to wear. He wondered if she’d notice, being a human. The café was located in a market strip named Iallrius, not too far from the Silversun Strip. It was well known for its multicultural deli bars and food stalls, the place always simmering with spice and heat. As he walked through the busy market, hoping to spot her before heading inside the café, Marik suddenly became aware of his thudding heart. He clenched and unclenched his talons, a headache becoming vaguely threatening behind his crest plates. She was outside the café, seated already, with a drink. A small knot formed in his chest when he saw her, ached when he thought of what he was going to tell her. How she’d react when she’d see him again. Her hair was fluffy and wild as ever, and her skin seemed darker, as if she’d spent time in the sun. He guessed she would’ve – having lived on space stations for a significant amount of her life. There was a new spattering of freckles over her cheeks and on the top of her shoulders and round her clavicles. Marik forced a lump in his throat to go down when he realised the feelings were still there, no matter how much he wanted to suffocate them. Laurel had picked up on him immediately and pulled a stiff smile, waving to him a little. Marik felt the floor beneath him give way as he tried to walk up to her in a straight line. _You’re sober._

“Hi Marik,” she said as he walked up to their table. Her smooth, husky voice had featured so many times in his dreams. He tried his best to keep his eyes on her face, wanting to take her all in immediately. He was unsure how humans greeted each other when things were…awkward, so he did nothing and sat down.

“Hello Laurel…You look…I mean, er, you look well.” _Spirits, when did you revert to a teenager?_ Luckily she smiled a little.

“Thanks. All that sea air, I forgot what it was like after a while. I like your suit.” His mandibles drew apart in joy at her compliment. He was afraid she’d be nothing but hostile with him – which was what he deserved, quite frankly.

“Your family…are they well?” he asked. Despite his happiness in seeing her, he knew this was an excruciatingly awkward affair. He was clasping his talons tightly underneath the table. He felt unable to order a drink, too nervous to swallow anything or lose sight of her, lest this all be a wild dream. Why did she look so different? Her eyes were brighter, her shoulders loosened, her hair untamed. She wore her clothes like she did before, but this time she looked comfortable. She wore a new jacket, one that matched the colour of her eyes and her lips looked tinged with something pleasant. _Keep your eyes on her eyes, fool._

“Um…Dad died - as soon as I saw him, really. My sister and I have rekindled our relationship. It was so, so good to see her. They…well, she, has a beautiful house back home. I mean, home home – where I grew up. It’s airy, surrounded by the sea, in an old converted barn. My dad…his will left the house to my sister and I. I feel like I finally belong somewhere,” she babbled away.

“I’m sorry about your father,” he said, hoping it sounded as if he hadn’t interrupted. She shook her head.

“It’s fine. He…he said some things to me before he died that…” She drifted off, lost in thought.

“It’s alright, Laurel. You don’t have to tell me,” he assured her.

“Thanks. It’s just…. if I knew how it would all turn out…I would’ve gone back sooner. So much sooner. I would’ve seen mum again, maybe started a new relationship with my dad. I could’ve avoided the miserable life I led both on the Citadel and Omega.”

“What matters is the present,” he said to her. He wanted to say so much more, but felt it was best to leave it at that. She nodded and took a long sip of her hot drink, watching the passers by, all different species.

“I have to ask; why did you come back?” he asked her. She pursed her lips giving him a level stare, fingers fiddling in her lap.

“Because I heard about Anise,” she replied without blinking. “Among other things.” Some of her things were still at his apartment. _Was that all?_

“There’s been more developments,” he said to her, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “How much have you heard?”

“Just that, really.”

“She has disappeared, for one. The media got hold of the story and things blew up. There were protests at first, now things are tense between our people and crime is at an all time high. She still hasn’t been heard from or seen. The investigation is on-going. So far they’ve managed to find that the information stolen has had something to do with an arms manufacturer, Oprikar-”

“That’s Stefan Jensen’s manufacturer,” she hissed suddenly, leaning forward to meet him very close. He felt her warm breath on his face and he momentarily lost himself.  

“Shit…. Is there anything else?” she finished. He shook his head, drawing back.

“No…not that I know of. I left C-Sec. Or was politely asked to, anyway. If I was still there I might have more information. And I’m not inclined to go breaking into my old employers information records, either.” He immediately regretted his last sentence, wondering if she thought it too defensive or hostile. She leaned back too, shrugging her shoulders.

“I really hope this doesn’t come to bite us on the arse. What has she _done_? What an idiot. And she was supposed to be the smart one….” He remained silent, not wanting to discuss this further, regretting he told her it at all.

“Marik…. How have things been with you? Did you want to leave C-Sec?” Her voice was cautious, and he felt cautious.

“I suppose in the end, I did. But I feel rather useless at the moment. I don’t know what to do with my free time. I’m not exactly retirement age either, I’ve still fifteen to twenty years to go.”

“You seem…better,” she said, reaching forward. Her hand had freckles on it. Reluctantly he drew his hand up and met hers. She squeezed his hand tightly and he nearly melted at the contact. The thudding heart and aching knot were in his mouth now, soaking up any words he had like a sponge.

“I…I’ve been sober f-for…four months and two days,” he said.

“That’s great,” she said, squeezing his hand tighter. _Why won’t she say it? Why won’t you say it. That you’re in love with her. Her. A human. That you’re deeply sorry for everything._

“I’ve taken up my studies again,” she announced while he tortured himself internall. _It’s now or never, Deus. Now or never. Now or never. Now or never._

“Laurel I’m deeply sorry for everything I’ve said. Everything I have done. Everything that’s ever caused hurt to you,” he announced suddenly, stopping her in her words. Her mouth dropped open slightly.

“I-I’m in love with you. I have…I have loved you for a long time, now. But…my selfish actions, my behaviour was unacceptable. I hurt you. Too many times.”

“Marik…” she began.

“I could never be what you deserve, Laurel. There’s nothing I can offer you. I am not a good man, not a man of honour. I need you to end this, because I can’t.” Her eyes began leaking with tears, and his subharmonics rumbled with grief. He stared down into his lap, feeling his own tears. One large single tear dropped onto the cleanliness of his suit. He let them fall until he was sure they’d stopped for now.

“It can’t work between us. You know it can’t. You need to be back on Earth, with your sister. You need to catch up on lost time. On time that you deserve. I need to leave the Citadel. It holds…too many memories for me,” he said, his normally very deep voice pitching higher with emotion. Both of them were crying openly at this point, despite being surrounded by the public. No one took any notice, thankfully.

“B-But what about you?” she cried, wiping away her tears that ran down her cheeks.

“Oh I’ll find a little colony for turians somewhere,” he tried to smile. “Buy a farm…have some, what are those Earth birds you keep? Chickens? Yeah, chickens. Although I couldn’t eat their eggs. Maybe an Earth dog. Or a varren.” They laughed together, noses blocked from their crying so the laughing turned to snorting.

“But…”

“Shhh…No buts,” he said quietly, interlacing his talons with her spindly fingers. “Our past...It’s not something to recover from lightly. We’ve tried to make it work, but it can’t.” She kept crying however, and so did he. His heart couldn’t take it anymore. Marik stood up, and took her hand. He pressed his mouth plates to the back of her hand, imitating a human kiss.

“Take care, Laurel,” he said to her, for the last time. She tried to pull him back, too overcome with tears to say anything. Marik pulled away and disappeared into the crowds of the market, disappearing from sight.

* * *

 

It was difficult for both of them to get through the next week.

Him, trying to avoid going back on his own words and immediately contacting her. Her, trying to do exactly the same. Laurel knew she still had all her possessions back at his apartment, but she couldn’t bring herself to go round his and see him again. Part of her was hurt, part of her was angry and mostly the other half distraught. Yet she respected his choice, was surprised beyond words what he’d told her. He was in love with her? She knew he had feelings for her but was astounded to think that he loved her. Love was a powerful word. Love was not easy or simple. It wasn’t just sex and it wasn’t just friendship. Even if they did confess such feelings and tried to make a future, what future would it be? Could two different species from completely different worlds try to eek out an existence without fear or prejudice? Could their own shortcomings overcome these problems? Could love just overcome it? She couldn’t say she felt the same about him - her feelings were too confused. The past still hurt so much, no matter how much the negative voice said she ought to have got over it by now. How could one ever recover from the psychological effects of torture? The eight long years spent in a prison ostracised from her family and ostracised further from society?

She rented a hotel room for a week, but decided that she wanted to go back home immediately. Perhaps next time she’d bring Fern for a grand tour of the galaxy’s multiculturalism. Thankfully, she managed to receive half a refund for her hotel room, and booked a flight home tomorrow. Sat on her hotel bed going through her studies on her handheld terminal, she suddenly heard a cautious knock at the door. Laurel frowned, it was just after eleven at night. Getting up slowly from her comfy bed, she padded in socks over to the door and looked through the eyehole. Unfortunately it was not a turian. It was a man, mid to late forties, whom she didn’t recognise at all. Deciding against opening the door she opened the video intercom to talk to him instead.

“Hi. It’s a bit late,” she said into the intercom. The man’s brown face was prematurely lined with lines, as if he’d lived a hard life.

“Ms. Westfahl, please I need to talk to you.”

“Could you tell me who you are first? And why you’re here?”

“Ex-Alliance. I have something you might be interested in.”

“Sorry I don’t buy it. Can you go bother someone else please?” she then said, about to flip the intercom screen off.

“PLEASE! Westfahl, I’ve risked a lot to get this to you-”

“What?” she asked, her heart beginning to thud. The man held up on finger and unzipped his backpack, slowly drawing out a tiny piece of equipment. It looked like an old-fashioned hard drive.

“The blackbox from 2157,” he said. She knew instantly what he meant; the flight recorder from the ship she departed on to disarm the nuclear probe in 2157. Laurel opened the door, letting him in, astounded. He handed it to her the minute she let him inside.

“How did…” She asked, turning the piece of equipment in her hands.

“The ship was decommissioned and sent to Korlus for scrap. I don’t know whether Jensen had a hand in that, Alliance don’t normally associate with Korlus but…”

“I know it. I was stationed on Korlus for a time,” she said, holding the blackbox tightly in her hands. Her eyes nearly filled with tears.

“Someone found it during the process, decided to keep it. Blackboxes on Korlus are a rare find, they usually remove them before sending them there. I was a merc with the Blue Suns. Someone you know contacted me – she had contacts on Korlus who weren’t associated with Cerberus.”

“Why did Jensen not try and get rid of it?” she asked, nonplussed. It seemed very careless of him. The man gave her a simple shrug.

“There’s more to it than I know. I think he’s cosy with the higher officials. Also once a ship goes to Korlus, that’s it. And you know well yourself it’s a no-go zone for most people.”

“He’s an arrogant bastard,” she whispered. The tears slipped out of her eyes.

“Thank you…thank you…I don’t know or want to know how you found me but…please tell me who your contact is,” she pleaded. The man opened the door. She recognised the hidden weapons that bulked out his clothing, cementing the fact he was a secret agent of some kind. He went out into the corridor, having looked left and right as he did so.

“Someone you know,” he replied, nodding at her. With that, he disappeared.

* * *

  
The following day, Laurel’s head was in a whirl. She had the blackbox, the flight recorder from her ship, in her possession. This was her chance to clear her name, to gain justice for all the wrongs. She was giddy with joy. It didn’t last long however; the man whom had given it to her had been found dead no less than ten hours later, shot brutally in a dodgy old bar deep in the grimy wards. Her heart in mouth as soon as she saw the local news on the television, she changed as quick as she could, glad for her lack of possessions. She had to get to the human embassy or Alliance headquarters on the Citadel. It was likely she might be targeted – it was too much of a coincidence. She thought of Marik – could he help her? She was busy wrapping the blackbox in a pillowcase to protect when she heard a polite knock at the door. Perhaps it was the housekeeper. Her heart couldn’t help but thud, making her chest tighten in fear. Her wide eyes stared at the door for a moment, hoping whoever it was had gone. Tucking the blackbox deep into her pocket she tiptoed to the door, seeing who it was on the screen without using the two-way intercom. She couldn’t react further because a deafening blast of a shotgun ripped the door open. It sprayed the plastic behind her, where the door handle would’ve been. She was lucky she had been standing on the right, her scream caught in the back of her throat. It was a massive krogan in blood-red armour.

“Knock, knock,” he grinned, gripping a Claymore shotgun in his large beefy hands. Laurel didn’t hang about further, throwing herself out of the way as he let another shot off. Her ears were ringing from the blast as she hauled herself towards the window and struggled to open it.

“Who are you?” she yelled.

The krogan, clearly not interested in talking it out, let off a concussive shot, which missed her about an inch and hit the window, making a large dent. Gun-proof glass. The window wouldn’t budge. _Fuck! Come on!_

“The recorder, human,” he then snarled, bearing his pearly white teeth, letting off another shot. “Then maybe I’ll let you live.”

“Over my dead body,” she snapped, knowing that if she were too careless she’d end up dead. Krogan were not to be messed with. If she stayed any longer, he’d either shred her guts or charge her and then shred her guts. That claymore shotgun looked mean. The krogan chuckled and then shrugged once he stopped being amused.

“All right then,” he grinned. She nearly broke her fingers shoving the window open, which had finally given way. It was a steep drop; what could she do?

“Long way down, human,” the krogan threatened. He fired again as she dodged out of the way, yelling as the sound echoed throughout the room, nearly deafening her. She leapt back up, hopped onto the window ledge and plunged down headfirst.

It was about four seconds before she hit something but it felt like an eternity. The wind whistled in her ears as she felt the pull of artificial gravity. She hadn’t fallen that far or perhaps she had. The lights around her had blended into one. It felt like being free for a single moment. Laurel had hit a skycar; thankfully she’d dropped into a busy sky lane. The car had wobbled and stopped almost immediately when she made impact with it, breaking the windscreen. She knew it had been an idiotic thing to do, but in this case, probably better than face a krogan. The car’s breaking had toppled her back off and back down below her, but before she could feel the four-second eternity of falling again something tingly and warm encased her body. Feeling the warmth of her blood running down the side of her head, she briefly glanced up to see an asari leaning out of another skycar, holding her steady with biotics. _Thank the goddess._

When she’d been brought aside to what was a shopping ward with curious onlookers, she saw the skycar owner had been salarian. He was currently quibbling with C-Sec about how much damage she’d caused. She was half lying on the ground, trying to catch her breath. The other asari who’d saved her had already called medics; C-Sec thankfully had been there already.

“It’s ok, m’am, it’s ok,” the female turian C-Sec officer was telling her as she held some fabric to her bleeding head.

“I’m fine, honestly,” she moaned somewhat drunkenly. She knew she wasn’t fine at all; she felt a sharp pain in her ribs, her forearm was almost certainly broken and something felt like it was rattling loose in her head. It was difficult to keep herself from fainting, but she felt her body winning against her this time. She collapsed on the floor. When she woke a minute later, the officer had her lying in the recovery position. Her ribs were screaming.  

“Poor thing,” said the asari. “She jumped pretty far.”

“You see where she jumped from?” asked the officer.

“The Quince Hotel I think,” replied the asari.

“You’re very lucky, human,” said the officer, still holding the fabric to her head to stem the bleeding.

“Or not lucky,” murmured another bystander. “Perhaps she wanted to…”

“Quiet,” snapped the asari. Laurel looked at their feet, trying to concentrate. _Tell…them…_ Suddenly her heart nearly stopped; the blackbox. Had she crushed it? _Oh you stupid, idiotic, crazy woman. If you’ve crushed it then all of this would’ve been for nothing._ She tried sitting up, pushing away the officer.

“M’am, please, stay lying down, you’re…very injured-”

“No! I want to see…” she murmured incoherently, dipping a hand into her jacket pocket and fishing out the blackbox, still wrapped in the pillowcase. It was intact. _Thank Christ I padded it up._

“Medics are on their way…” said the officer behind her again.

“No!” she snapped. “I don’t want help. Please call Marik!” She saw the officer frown a little.

“Are you…Laurel?” the officer asked her. Laurel, surprised, nodded. The C-Sec officer stood back up, turning away and spoke into her omni tool quickly. After a few minutes or so, the C-Sec officer turned back round to face Laurel, bending down on her haunches.

“He’s coming,” said the officer, knowing in her eyes. Maybe it was one of Marik’s old colleagues. “I’ve called off the medics,” she added. “I know Marik was a doctor.” The salarian skycar driver was still complaining loudly by the time Marik had shown up, stopping abruptly in his skycar and half running towards Laurel.

“Thanks Pavra,” Marik said to the C-Sec Officer, squeezing the turian’s shoulder. He crouched down to Laurel, immediately cupping her face in his talons.

“Spirits, Laurel…what happened?” he said breathlessly, his usually small eyes now large with fraught anxiety. “You’re…where are you hurt?”

“Marik we have to get out of here….I…I’ll tell you later,” she whispered.

“My apartment?” he asked, as he scooped her easily up into his arms. She cried with pain as he did so.

“No, too dangerous. I need to get something to the human embassy…” she winced as he cradled her into his arms. His body was warm against her and despite everything her heart clenched joyfully. He told the still-complaining salarian he would pay for damages, which shut him up instantly. After he’d put her carefully into the passenger seat he drove them away, joining the busy sky lane.

“Is it really more important than your health, Laurel?” he said quietly, keeping his eyes ahead. “I have medical equipment back home.” She winced as he swerved slightly, feeling her broken ribs ever more.

“A man…gave me the…blackbox from my ship…Shanxi,” she bit out.

“Blackbox?” he asked, confused. She gritted her teeth.

“Flight recorder,” she bit out, making him widen his eyes in shock. However, before he could say anything further, something rammed hard into them from behind. The skycar lurched forward violently, hitting the car in front. The skycar in front of them swerved out of the lane, losing control. Laurel painfully turned round to see two figures in the car behind, one of them the krogan who was leaning out of the window with his shotgun.

“Shit! Get your head down!” she yelled, pushing herself further into her chair. Marik glanced into the rear view mirror, and swerved out of the lane. The shot unfortunately hit the back of their car, blowing a small corner off, plastic and metal raining down below. They were going well over seventy miles an hour and she couldn’t help but scream as Marik swerved and lurched the car round objects and buildings as the sky lane narrowed. Another shot was heard, and the skycar behind smashed into them once more. Laurel turned round again to see the krogan leaning out, preparing to jump – right onto their car.

“Marik!” she cried but the krogan was surprisingly fast. He leapt out much quicker than she expected, in a ballsy move. The metal of the skycar creaked as he landed heavily, making Laurel’s teeth in her jaw rattle. She heard the pump action of a shotgun, drawing in her breath. Marik did too, before he swerved the skycar violently, trying to force the krogan off. But the krogan was too strong. One shot sounded, blowing a hole in the roof. Marik reached underneath his seat and passed a pistol, a Carnifex, to her. Laurel turned to see the krogan’s bright yellow eye looking down at them through the newly formed hole.

“Peekaboo…. A turian as well! That’ll make things so much more fun-” Laurel aimed and fired a shot through the hole, missing his leg by a mere centimetre. He roared with laughter as a result.

“Have to try harder than _that_ pathetic human-” He fired his ridiculous shotgun off again, blowing another hole in the roof, aggressively shaking the skycar. Marik swerved through the traffic, trying to thrown the krogan off, but he must’ve had something on his armour that allowed him to easily cling to the metal of the vehicle. The shots from the shotgun rang through the air again, not helped by the now whistling wind through the car, thanks to the hole. Laurel didn’t hesitate and aimed again, trying now to aim between his eyes. Marik’s constant swerving wasn’t helping, and all of the shots she fired had missed.

“And they tell me you were Alliance, human!” roared the krogan, firing off another ear-splitting shot. This time he’d hit the controls right in front of Marik. It sparked and flashed in front of him, and now they started to plummet. Laurel shot at the krogan again, this time putting a couple of shots into the flesh of his exposed neck and arm. This only put him into a rage however, and he took the edges of where he’d blown a hole through the roof and tore it open with his huge powerful arms.

“Laurel, I can’t control the car anymore,” shouted Marik through the noise. Her heart was in her mouth at this point. The Citadel had too many overhanging balconies to let them tumble down the sheer drop below. Unfortunately they’d entered a quiet, seedy ward, which would make it harder to lose the krogan. Laurel saw a large balcony where a car dealership was set up.

“Almost there,” said Marik, undoing his seatbelt to reach her. The krogan had succeeded at the point in tearing the hole big enough so he could fire off a shot at Laurel. Incredibly, Laurel heard it go off, but it took her minute to realise that Marik had formed a small biotic barrier to protect them. _I didn’t know he could still do that,_ her mind thought in a split second. The krogan roared his frustration, but he could do nothing more as the skycar hit the balcony at last, skidding along the floor, breaking half a dozen glass windows before reaching the car dealership. The krogan had leapt off easily as the skycar crashed. Laurel felt herself being jostled awake, seeing smoke at the front of the vehicle.

“Come on,” Marik muttered, pushing open his door and dropping down to a crouch. She crawled across in pain, feeling worse than she did before. She copied his stance, as they crouched against the car. The krogan couldn’t be heard at this point.

“Can you run?” he whispered to her.

“Yes,” she whispered back, not really believing herself. Marik motioned her to stay down, looking above to find the krogan. He was about seventy feet away, storming angrily towards them, shotgun ready. Marik reached into the car again, opening what looked like a glove compartment and pulled out another pistol. If their lives weren’t in danger this might have made Laurel smirk or perhaps chastise him.

“Start running, Laurel,” he murmured to her. “Don’t stop. Head for the Ezkai hotel. Wait in the lobby.”

“I’m not leaving you here, Marik,” she hissed. “Don’t play the goddamn hero.”

“I’m going to distract him – you’ll get a head start.”

“No Marik, please, I-”

“You fuckers are more trouble than you’re worth!” yelled the krogan who was suddenly above them. _How did he advance on us so quickly?_ They both got up simultaneously. With incredibly fast reflexes, Marik manually disarmed the krogan whose eyes had been focused on Laurel, starting to run away. He bashed the stock of the shotgun into the krogan’s face as he did so.

“Turian!” the krogan sneered, grabbing Marik by the throat in anger and squeezing. Laurel glanced to see the shotgun now on the ground. She ran back, despite Marik’s protests and skidded along the floor to grab the shotgun. Before she could get back up, the krogan already had a pistol in his hand, and fired twice at her. The first missed, the second landed in her leg as she jumped. Cursing as she fell to the ground with new pain, she tried reaching for the shotgun watching at the krogan grapple with Marik. It looked like the krogan was going to break his neck at any second. _Why won’t he use his biotics,_ her mind cried as she dragged herself quickly to the shotgun she’d dropped. Marik sank his sharp teeth down into the krogan’s already injured neck, making the latter roar in agony. He dropped Marik to the ground who proceeded to stumble away and ran towards Laurel.

“RUN!” he yelled. She tried, but her leg was too painful to stand out. Blood had already pooled on the floor.

“MOVE!” Marik yelled again, then dragging her upwards, talons sinking deep into her. He nearly pulled her arm out of her socket. He pushed her forward to try and get her to move. Meanwhile the krogan had regained his bearings, fortifying his armour and moving towards them slowly with his pistol raised.

“Out of the way, turian,” the krogan snapped. He fired off a shot at Marik, hitting him in the chest. The force of the shot had made Marik stumble and fall. Laurel, who’d been slightly in front, stopped abruptly.

“Go,” she heard Marik say, pushing himself up a little with trembling arms. Her mouth opened and closed in shock. Her legs wouldn’t move as she stared at Marik, whose arms shook as he tried to push himself up. She saw a lot of blood, spilling down onto the floor below him. Bright blue blood. She fired off the shotgun before the krogan could. It hit him in the shoulder, making him stumble back but only slightly. His armour had bared the brunt of the shot.

“Try again,” he sneered, lifting his pistol to shoot aiming at her head. He didn’t have a chance however, because a sudden explosion propelled her off her feet. She landed painfully on her back, catching her buttocks hard on the ground. She smelt smoke and heard the whirring of a skycar. Trying to regain her senses, Laurel weakly pushed herself up to see what had happened. Marik had rolled out of the way, and the krogan lay several feet away, motionless on the ground. A batarian with an RPG leaned out of the skycar that was hovering in the air. She blinked to try and see who it was.

“Get in!” yelled the batarian. She’d rather take her chances with a batarian than a krogan bounty hunter. Pushing herself up and grabbing the shotgun, she ran towards Marik and tried to pull him up into a standing position. He was considerably heavier than a human man.

“Come on, get up,” she hissed, pulling at him hard. She had a suspicion that the krogan was just knocked out, rather than dead. He seemed to hear her and dragged himself with great effort, struggling to breathe properly. Blood soaked the front of his tunic and he was cold to touch. As they neared the skycar, Laurel saw the batarian; Mire, who belonged to the Blue Suns. She halted, frowning at him.

“Look human, if I wanted you dead, I’d have made sure this hit you too,” he snarled, motioning her to get in. Deciding that Mire was probably an easier target to take down than the krogan, she got into the skycar with Marik.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if there are any further mistakes - many thanks to Mosva for initial proofreading. I was tired when I uploaded this (probably not a good idea). I also painted a portrait of Marik recently, you can see it on my deviant art page here:- https://clouddrifter8.deviantart.com/art/Captain-Absedeus-Marik-731569848


	35. Chapter 35

A man drove the skycar, while a mean-looking salarian sat in the passenger seat, turned round with his weapon drawn. Marik toppled to the floor of the car, which was more spacious than most skycars – more like a van. 

“Please, whatever you want, can it wait?” Laurel pleaded with them, pressing her hands down onto Marik’s chest. His eyes were closed and he wasn’t moving. She moved her ear down to his mouth, looking down his chest; still breathing.  _ Thank god.  _ She glanced round the vehicle inside for a first aid kit. She could hear sucking noises from his chest. 

“Medkit?” she snapped. Mire and the salarian exchanged glances. Mire rootled around for a kit, and she snatched it off him quickly before finding medi-gel inside. She spread a square-shaped layer over the sucking chest wound, leaving a small gap for the air to escape through. His breathing was shallow and his pulse was weak.  _ Don’t die on me. Please don’t die.  _

“Put some of that stuff on your leg,” said Mire suddenly. She was all at once made aware of her injuries again; her broken ribs, arm and gunshot wound in her calf. Where did it hurt more? Probably her ribs, if she were to be honest. The sharp pains each time she breathed were by far the worst agony. She smeared the medi-gel onto the wound, which dried over quickly. 

“Any other injuries?” asked Mire. 

“Arm and ribs…broken,” she gritted her teeth as the skycar turned a sharp corner. Mire and the salarian kept their eyes on them. 

“What do you want?” she hissed, trying to keep her eyes on Marik as well as the batarian. Mire blinked his four, large dark eyes as he stared at her. She always found the gaze of batarians (as well as turians) somewhat unnerving. She’d be hard-pressed to find either who looked docile. Mire stayed silent, however. 

“I’m not going anywhere or doing anything for you until we get him to a hospital,” she said to Mire, making sure her expression said it also. 

“Not here to ask anything of  _ you _ ,” replied Mire. Was that something she should be comforted by or was it a threat? It was hard to tell. 

“Then why did you help us?” she asked in return. Mire and the salarian exchanged glances again. It was silent at the skycar sped them through the wards. 

“A common enemy,” said Mire. Laurel frowned, confused. 

“Whatever it is, it can wait,” she eventually replied. “He needs help, right now.” Mire’s eyes flicked to Marik on the floor of the car, his breath still sucking in and out through the hole in his chest. 

“I know a doctor deep in the wards,” said Mire. “He runs a private clinic. We should be safe there – for now.” It was another ten minutes before they reached their destination – a small clinic that said it was currently closed – lit up by the various shops and markets opposite and down the street. There were a lot of homeless people, human and non-human, wandering or huddled up in shop doorways. The human driver sped off as Mire and the salarian carried Marik to the doorway of this clinic. Laurel carried their weapons, looking up and down the street for any signs of the krogan; it would be easy to spot the bounty hunter, as krogan were not a common sight on the citadel. The doctor was also salarian, who waited in a (thankfully) clean lab, arms stiff behind his back. 

“Gunshot wound to the chest,” filled in Laurel, who felt like she had to act as paramedic. “He has a-”

“Sucking chest wound, yes I can see that,” snapped the doctor, who got to work on Marik right away. She turned away, trying to catch a breath, trying to acknowledge what had happened, whom she was with. She was just trying to get her life back on track, she was going to leave here forever and go home – but the past had caught up with them. Was there ever a break in all this? She took a seat outside in the reception. Laurel hadn’t realised but she was covered in Marik’s blood, smeared across the top of her cargo pants and all over her t-shirt.  _ Was he going to live?  _ He’d lost a lot of blood. It had dripped from the entrance to the surgery room. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been waiting there, for she’d fallen asleep in her chair, exhausted and aching. The pain of her own injuries began to register again as she sat there, desperate for a hot drink and shower. Unfortunately, she had to wait a little longer. A large hand grabbed her uninjured upper arm and hauled her upwards. It was the salarian who accompanied Mire, skinny and towering with huge biceps.  _ Certainly goes against type, _ she thought dryly, before he hauled her back into another surgery room, lights dimmed. 

“Get on the bed,” said Mire, who was smoking a cigarette. 

“Are you suddenly a doctor?” she snapped. He gave her a poisoned look. She didn’t have the strength to argue with them, however, and clambered onto it, injuries screaming. 

“Got a few questions for you,” said Mire, unfolding his arms and stepping forward. He blew out his smoke, taking his time as he walked up to her without dragging his eyes away. Her heart began to thump harder, and she drew short breaths in through her nose, nostrils flaring. She began to nervously eye his cigarette as he took another drag, eyes still on her unwaveringly. 

“I want you to explain what happened on that night…all those, long, long years ago,” he said to her slowly. “Without the bullshit.” She knew which night he meant; the job they were supposed to do for Aria, which had gone catastrophically wrong. She tilted her head up, trying to appear braver than she felt. 

“Are you going to believe anything I say?” she asked. Mire started to laugh at her. 

“That depends,  _ human _ . Start talking.” 

“It was going fine until I realised who it was that stole from Aria,” she said. 

“And who is he, exactly?” asked Mire, still looking calm and laid back. 

“His real name is Stefan Jensen, ex-Alliance. That’s how I knew him,” she said. 

“And how was the  _ whole  _ mission jeopardised by this?” 

“Cos I knew him,” she said. “I’d…antagonised him. We have history…” 

“What history?” asked Mire. 

“I…History in the Alliance. First Contact War, my being in prison. He knew I was a threat. Marik got involved. We had to get away, knowing it looked like we’d betrayed Aria and abandoned the mission…” 

“You’ll have to explain…what history this is exactly, human,” said Mire, stepping close enough that he was beside her – too close. 

“What does our history have to do with any of  _ this _ ?” she snapped, waving her arm around. “I didn’t escape from a krogan bounty hunter just to be threatened by you, of all people.” Mire then did something excruciating – he stuck his finger into the gunshot wound in her leg. She leaned forward suddenly, gasping in pain. 

“You’re not the only person who has a bounty hunter on their back,” said Mire calmly, as if he was anywhere but a grungy old surgery in a seedy ward. 

“Jensen is part of Cerberus….” She gasped as he twisted his finger cruelly. 

“I know that part,” snapped Mire. 

“He betrayed me and….my crew during the F-First Contact War. He framed me, urgh… for his c-crime and I spent eight years in prison. Someone recently g-gave me the blackbox…the flight recorder from our crashed ship…” Tears of agony slipped out from her eyes. “I’m guessing the bounty hunter is…Jensen’s….” 

“So you didn’t betray us?” Mire said. 

“No…. Oh God, please stop,” she cried. 

“More details,” he snapped, digging deeper. She screamed in pain and kicked out reflexively with her other leg. Mire was caught in the face by the toe of her sneakers and he fell to the ground briefly, cursing. The salarian was quick behind her though. Laurel hauled herself off the bed and tried to fight him off before she heard the door open beside them. She heard the unmistakable click of a gun. Her heart dropped, hoping it was Marik – unfortunately it was the salarian doctor, holding his gun up at the other salarian. 

“This is a clinic, not a torture chamber,” he snapped. “I said you could bring the injured in after hours, not brutalise them here.” 

“Just do your job,” grumbled Mire. 

“I am,” said the salarian. “Get out before I shoot you out.” Mire glanced over to Laurel as he turned to leave after his salarian bodyguard. He looked like he was sucking on a lemon; face full of acid. 

“I’ll come back in a couple of days. If you want to live, avoid leaving this clinic.”

“You think I’ll do as you say, you bastard?” she spat at him. 

“The krogan,” was all Mire replied with before he left. She was left with the doctor examining her with that analytical look that many salarians carried. 

“Interesting friends you have,” he replied. “Come on, I’ve stabilised your turian friend. Let me dig out that slug in your leg.” He waved her over and they walked back into the surgery room. A machine bleeped, monitoring Marik’s heart rate. He was still unconscious, hooked up to a drip. It was so unusual to see a turian so frail, so vulnerable, with his eyes closed and his mandibles slack. The doctor had removed his tunic completely and she saw the delicate skin of his torso rise up and down steadily. 

“Will he ok?” she whispered, clambering up on another bed. The doctor picked up a pair of scissors and cut through her trousers easily, opening them up wider. 

“Yes. He’s lost a lot of blood but thankfully he’s a regular blood type - for a turian. You helped save his life – he was very lucky to not have his lung collapse either. The shot was far too close to his heart for my liking, however. It will take him a while to recover.” She bit her lip in worry, her own heart aching.  _ Too close to his heart?  _ The thought of it killing him gave her a tremendously uncomfortable feeling of sorrow and despair. 

“Don’t worry. He’s still alive,” replied the doctor, having picked up on her distress. He injected her with local anaesthetic before attempting to dig out the bullet in her leg, which was much larger than usual. She could feel it in her leg, minus the pain, and it still made her wince. Upon success, the doctor twisted his tongs round to study the bullet. 

“Hm. Oddly large. What weapon was used?”

“A pistol…But it was a krogan wielding it.” The doctor frowned as he plopped the heavy metal into a tray. He began to sow up her leg after cleaning it and taking an x-ray with a portable device. 

“No shattered or fractured bone…amazing. Any other injuries?” She showed him her broken arm and told him about the broken ribs. For this she had to go under general, so she slept for several hours, waiting for the local to wear off before he put her under totally.  He told her to count to ten, and she never made it past two. 

* * *

By the time she woke up, she noticed the doctor had taken off her sneakers and drawn a blanket over her body. This small act of kindness made her lips quiver with a smile. Every part of her ached despite the painkillers she had in her body. She knew the internal medicine they used these days to heal bones quicker had some unpleasant side effects. Her mind went over the events of the day. Too many things had happened too quickly. She could now understand Mire’s behaviour (mostly); he probably thought both her and Marik were traitors, that they’d ditched Aria’s mission and left Mire and the rest for dead. She swivelled her eyes round to see the salarian typing up details onto his computer. She attempted to sit upwards and he must’ve had the hearing of a bat because he turned round to face her. 

“I would rest.... The medicine will have kicked in by now but you need to give it a minimum of twenty four hours,” he said to her. 

“I can’t wait here for twenty four hours,” she said, flopping back down on the bed. 

“You’ll have to Ms, er…what is your name?” 

“Laurel Westfahl and…” 

“Absedeus Marik, yes I know the name of him,” replied the salarian. “I am Dr. Varalan.” 

“I’ll be sure to give your clinic a five star rating on the extranet,” she replied. Dr. Varalan nearly smiled as he turned back to his work. 

“How do you know Marik?” she asked. 

“I don’t,” the doctor replied, not turning round from his work. “Your turian is well known, although his heyday has definitely been over for some time now.” 

“He’s not my turian,” she replied.  _ Yes he is,  _ said a tiny, annoying voice. 

“Oh yes…beg your pardon...I meant friend,” replied the doctor but she could tell he  _ knew _ . Nothing got past a salarian. She looked over to Marik, who looked exactly the same as he did when she last saw him. Her eyes closed and she went back to sleep. 

* * *

By the second day, Dr. Varalan definitely knew more than he was letting on. He allowed her to shower in his apartment and he shared his food with her while Marik recovered in the surgery room. His food was…interesting to say the least. Her t-shirt and trousers were now stained and cut by surgery so he gave her a tunic and trousers that were miles too big on her and smelt like something akin to rosemary. He said she shouldn’t attempt to leave while Marik was still recovering, and by the third day she was bored out of her brains. She’d tried to read some of his medical books and dropped off each time she read a chapter. The doctor didn’t have much in the way of entertainment in his apartment, a clear sign he was a man obsessed with his work. However, in the evening, Marik had finally woken up. She wasn’t sure if he ‘looked’ better or not. He still appeared fragile in that bed. His eyes lit up when he turned his head slowly to see her curled up in an armchair next to him. 

“Laurel…” he croaked, mandibles moving outwards in joy. She’d only been lightly dozing and sat up quickly, grabbing his hand. 

“Hey sleepyhead…” she smiled, overjoyed to see him finally awake. 

“Where are we?” he asked, eyes squinting at the bright light. She got up and dimmed it slightly. 

“A private clinic in the wards,” she told him. “How are you feeling?” 

“Like I’ve just been shot in the chest,” he smirked at her, untangling his hand from hers and stroking a single talon down her cheek. She couldn’t help but laugh. 

“You were very lucky…. that bullet almost pierced your heart,” she said, face serious again. His pupils were large and round as he took her in. 

“You got there first…” he replied, dropping his talon back down to the bed. Her cheeks blossomed with sudden colour. She wanted to kiss him very badly, but shyness and joy were so mixed up together that neither could win. She glanced away, while he looked her over. 

“Should I be worried?” he asked. She turned back to him, puzzled. “You’re wearing a salarian’s clothes…” 

“Gosh, for someone who’s just gone through a  _ major trauma  _ you are very chirpy and jokey,” she said, cupping his chin, stroking his lower mouth plate with her thumb. 

“Maybe because I’ve just woken up next to you…” 

“And flirty!” she said, pulling in towards his mouth.  _ Oh fuck it all.  _ She kissed him passionately, cupping his face with her hands. He was still unused to kissing, but he responded in kind, despite his weakness. He let her nip and suck and caress his mouth and mandibles, eyes fluttering, his voice soon vibrating with a purr, a sign he was content. 

“He even let me shower in his apartment…” she said, whispering into his ear. 

“I hope you were thinking of me,” he rasped, his guttural voice sending a tremendous shiver down her spine as he breathed hot into her neck. 

“ _ Ahem _ ,” began a small voice behind them. Laurel was so shocked and embarrassed she nearly crashed into the medical equipment behind. She heard Marik sniggering as she straightened back up, turning to see the salarian doctor standing at the doorway. 

“Jesus Christ!” she shouted. “Perhaps a knock first?” 

“This is my clinic, Laurel Westfahl,” said Dr. Varalan, sounding annoyed but she swore she glimpsed a twinkle in his eye. He walked up to Marik and checked the machine, giving them silence for now. When he’d finished, he turned to face them. 

“Doing much better than expected,” he announced. “But I must insist – you need rest in order to fully recover.” 

“We can’t stay here, doctor,” said Marik, attempting to shift himself upwards a little. “Do you sell supplies? I’m a doctor myself…” Dr. Varalan’s thin mouth nearly vanished as he drew a look of pursed exasperation. 

“We’ll only be found eventually,” cut in Laurel. “We wouldn’t want you to come to harm-”

“You brought me to harm as soon as you stepped across my threshold,” snapped Dr. Varalan. Laurel, feeling guilty, exchanged a brief glance with Marik, who looked impatient. 

“I’m sorry, doctor,” she said, desperately wanting to erase the etched frown on his face – or what she interpreted as a frown – his normally large eyes drawing into a squint. After years spent among aliens she knew certain telltale signs of emotions expressed on faces. 

“It’s alright,” sighed Dr. Varalan. “It wasn’t…your fault. But the krogan will find this place in time. I’m surprised he hasn’t already but then again krogan aren’t always the brightest scalpels in the toolbox…” On that note, a thudding was heard against the front door, which was locked. Marik managed to sit up totally this time, while Laurel seemed to freeze, staring at the doctor. The salarian shook his head at them, and his omni tool pinged. 

“What do you want at this hour?” snapped the doctor, acting slightly. A small screen appeared above his arm from the omni tool. It was the face of Mire, and Laurel let out a partial breath of relief. 

“Come to check on our pals, see how they’re doing,” replied Mire. 

“Sarcasm doesn’t work with me. You’re a bloodthirsty merc and have no place in my clinic. Far cry from what you told me you were before. Now step away from the door,” said Varalan. 

“We just need to talk to Westfahl and Marik,” pleaded Mire, although his begging was far from sincere sounding. Laurel walked up to stand beside Varalan, looking at the screen. 

“What do you want, Mire?” she snapped. “Stop with the useless posturing and spit it out already.” 

“Not a good idea blurting it out on a busy street,” the batarian shot back. Laurel and Varalan exchanged cautious glances, his gaze seeming to say:  _ this is your funeral.  _ She gave him the briefest and smallest of nods. 

“Leave your weapons outside,” announced Varalan. Surprisingly, Mire and his salarian bodyguard complied with this, and were shepherded into the building by Varalan who stood behind them. Mire and the salarian walked into the surgery room, having seen Laurel from the doorway, but hadn’t anticipated Marik round the corner. With one swift movement, Marik slammed Mire’s head against the wall. There was a sickening crack as the batarian cried out in sudden anguish, collapsing to the floor. The salarian was met with a pistol before he could react. 

“Nice to see you,” Marik snarled, ignoring Mire’s cries. He motioned the salarian over to the corner, kicking Mire in the abdomen to move him. 

“You _ kglashraat…you fuuuucker….you veyn-fnarr-”  _ Some of Mire’s batarian insults hadn’t translated as he cried on the ground, clutching his face which was now bleeding profusely. Laurel couldn’t help but wince and frown as she saw red blood dribble down from Mire’s face as he rocked himself back and forward. Marik still had his pistol trained on the brawny salarian, who looked dark with anger. 

“One false move and you’ll be dead,” Marik hissed, pressing the pistol barrel into the salarian’s bare head. “Now…talk.” 

“He doesn’t know anything, he’s just my partner,” gargled Mire on the floor, still gasping from pain. He must’ve broken something in his face for she’d never seen anyone so hysterical from what looked like a simple bang. A far cry from the menacing man who’d threatened her just a couple of days ago. 

“Marik…please,” she blurted out, unable to take more violence.  _ You’ve lived on Omega. Since when did you go all soft?  _ Marik shot her a glance. 

“I’m finding it difficult to feel sympathy for these….” He started but drifted off, catching himself. He bent down and picked up Mire with a surprising amount of strength. “What do you want with Laurel? Why is a bounty hunter after her and what’s it got to do with you?” 

“The bounty hunter is after me…too…” Mire cried. Laurel kept her eyes on the salarian however, whose eyes were swivelling round the room, looking for an opportunity. 

“Hobbs and Banks…worked against me,  _ us _ , eventually. They were originally in c-contact with Jensen, who promised them a fair share of money he’d stolen…” 

“WHY would the bounty hunter be after  _ you _ ?” snarled Marik, shaking Mire as he tightened his grip on the batarian’s civvie clothing. 

“Banks and Hobbs…ran back and lied to Aria…. Let Jensen have the money as well as taking their share…. They pinned the blame on you, her, and me…” said Mire, regaining his breath only slightly. 

“Still doesn’t make sense why the bounty hunter is after you and us…and why you wanted to find us,” snapped Marik, drawing Mire close to his face so that the batarian could see Marik’s sharp, white teeth in all their glory. 

“I tailed you b-back to the Citadel, convinced you betrayed us. I-I managed to track down Westfahl and found out she had a sister…found Anise Carter belonged to Cerberus, working for Jensen. I thought she knew something…wanted to get revenge…but didn’t anticipate her skills. I told her everything-”

“You’d trust the truth with a stranger?” asked Marik, letting Mire go but still training his weapon on him and the salarian. Laurel was surprised that Mire had been that crafty and resourceful in espionage. 

“She made sure I’d tell the truth,” Mire trembled, tapping his thigh. Laurel glanced down at his leg, but his clothes covered whatever he was pointing to.  _ Did my sister…shoot him?  _

“Carter…she gave me her sister’s blackbox from the war… She somehow ‘acquired’ it.”

“Why the hell did she trust you with it?” snapped Laurel suddenly, more angry with Anise than Mire. Mire swivelled his dark eyes towards her. 

“I-I don’t know…” he confessed. “She was desperate, somehow found out that I’d known you. I knew you wouldn’t trust me if I gave it to you in person so I hired someone else. I also knew I was being tailed and wanted to see how it played out… I needed to make sure you weren’t a traitor.”

“So I was just bait?” asked Laurel. Mire sheepishly shrugged. Could she blame him? Her anger dissolved for now. There was silence save for the machinery droning in the background. 

“What’s your goal, Mire?” asked Marik, narrowing his eyes dangerously.  

“Return to Omega without Aria killing me. Finishing our original job with a bullet in Jensen’s brain.” The salarian suddenly snorted, crossing his arms in exasperation. 

“You expect Aria to  _ reward  _ you if you complete the job?” he scoffed. 

“Shut up, Pazik,” snapped Mire. 

“And you want us to help  _ you _ ?” asked Marik. The answer was evident in Mire’s face. But before Marik could say anything more, Laurel piped up. 

“On only one condition,” she announced, making Marik turn to gaze at her slack-jawed in surprise. “That we keep Jensen alive. And that I deliver both him and the blackbox to the Alliance.” They all looked at her in silence for a moment. 

“Laurel…I don’t want us to get involved in this again,” sighed Marik. 

“You don’t have to,” she retorted quickly. “I  _ need  _ to do this. Surely you realise how important this is to me.” Marik’s shoulders sunk, his pistol lowering a little. The salarian, Pazik, looked ready to strike at any moment. Fortunately, she saw Mire briefly shake his head in the corner of her eye. 

“It’s…it’s too dangerous,” said Marik, pleading in his eyes with his mandibles slack. It was difficult for her not to feel annoyance. 

“Who are you to tell me what and what not to do?” she asked, trying to keep her voice level. 

“It should be obvious why I’m telling you,” replied Marik quietly, his equipped arm now completely relaxed. “I’m in love with you. You might…-”

“Can we save the soap opera for another day?” yawned Pazik, helping Mire stand up. After all that fuss and violence both of them had seemed to remarkably relax. Laurel had looked away but she could tell that Marik’s softened gaze was still on her. 

“We have to get off the Citadel as soon as possible. Pazik has a small freighter. I’m not taking any more chances with that krogan,” said Mire, wiping the blood on his face off with a large dirty handkerchief.  

“No,” said Laurel. “I want this blackbox delivered to the human embassy ASAP. Or the Alliance headquarters.” 

“No deal,” snarled Pazik, stepping forward. 

“I’m not making a ‘deal’ with you!” snapped Laurel, equally as aggressive. There was an uncomfortable silence that followed, everyone’s heads buzzing with thoughts.

“Give it to me,” announced a quiet voice behind them. She turned to look at the doctor, his hands solemnly behind his back. 

“It’s too dangerous, doctor,” she said, shaking her head. “How will I know that the krogan won’t find you and the blackbox?” 

“I’m already involved,” replied the doctor, nodding at Mire and Pazik. “I can copy the evidence – a backup if there are…complications.” 

“That might be corruptible,” cut in Marik. “Easily changed, stolen… And it might not be seen as complete evidence – easily forged. Especially for a crime that’s getting on for fourteen years old.” Dr Varalan appeared unflustered by this. Laurel chewed on her lip, considering for a moment. 

“Can you take it to the embassy for me? I can double your pay,” she said, knowing that whatever she had saved wouldn’t cover these expenses. She could feel Marik’s disapproval, radiating off him. There was a loud, sudden bang at the door, making them all jump. Dr Varalan didn’t hesitate; he urged them all to follow him, soon showing them a way out the back. Laurel and Marik were last, as the banging continued. 

“The flight recorder, Westfahl,” said the doctor, holding out his slim-fingered hand. She held it tightly, wrapped in the pillowcase.  _ I don’t know. I don’t know. Oh god. I can’t lose this.  _

“I can’t,” she burst out. “It means too much to me.” She wasn’t sure if she could completely trust the doctor, despite everything he’d done so far. She could feel Marik at her back, urging her forward. 

“Open up!” came a distinct voice only belonging to a krogan from the front door. 

“Trust me.” The doctor’s bottomless dark eyes implored her, urging her to have confidence. She gave it to him reluctantly, shooting a look at the door behind her. Marik gave the doctor the pistol he was holding, patting him on the back. They left out the back in the dead of the night. 

* * *

He faced her in the poky little freighter, watching her chew her lip hard. Her knees bounced up and down and she rolled her shoulders back and forward, unable to sit still. The batarian and salarian were in the cockpit, thankfully preoccupied with piloting the ship. His Laurel hadn’t said a word since they escaped the clinic and boarded the freighter at one of the many ports. In fact Mire and Pazik hadn’t said much either, and Marik couldn’t help but wonder if this was a perfectly laid out trap. His own leg couldn’t stop bouncing in anxiety. It was going to be another four hours before they’d reach Omega. Marik leaned forward and caught Laurel’s clasped hands in his own. 

“Laurel…” he whispered. 

“I’m sorry I dragged you into this…I shouldn’t have got your colleague to call you back in the wards…”

“You’d be dead if you didn’t,” he admonished her. She met his eyes, pulling a small smile. 

“I’m so confused and….bewildered by all of this, Marik,” she began. “Anise…getting the blackbox to me? And…the possibility of having my name cleared? It’s too much to even comprehend. I wish it happened sooner. I don’t know if what we’re doing is a good idea. My skills are rusty – and we could end up dead.” 

“It isn’t a good idea,” he said honestly to her. “But I couldn’t have let you go on your own. Aria is smart, hopefully she will come round to believing us. She’ll think of a plan.”

“We’re relying on the generosity of a corrupt woman,” Laurel told him, raising those eyebrows of hers. “Just how forgiving do you think she’ll be?” 

“True. But if we’re to believe Mire then the money stolen from her hasn’t yet been returned.” She nodded at this, satisfied with his words. Another hour later, and they were slumped in their seats, her snuggled up next to him, breathing deeply. His talons threaded through her hair carefully, as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. He had tried to push her from him, but she’d come back into his life, once again. It was something he had to accept – that she’d made a mark on his life in a way that no one had done before. He breathed in her scent, cuddling her close to him, enjoying the warmth of her body, her soft breaths tickling the skin on his neck. He had time to get things sorted for himself. He could try to rebuild a new life, perhaps with her. He felt he didn’t deserve her – that she needed to be with her own kind. The differences between them were too great. She was young – she’d get over him. With another hour gone, Marik still sat there awake, while the human woman beside him slept. Despite living together briefly, she’d never slept in his bed, and he enjoyed listening and watching her as she slept. She had laughed in her sleep, very quietly, which amused him. Had telling her that he loved her still made her wonder on their relationship and where it was?  _ I’m kidding myself. I can’t ever hide my feelings.  _

* * *

Several hours later, Laurel Westfahl was face to face with Aria T’Loak on Omega once again. The place hadn’t changed, the same sticky, oily heat that clung to her skin and the acid-like smell that burned her nostrils. She held Marik’s hand in her own, tightly gripping him and he her, pulling her to his side. Despite everything, she felt safe with the turian by her side. Aria’s bodyguards, a turian named Grizz and Bray the batarian appeared as soon as they all stepped foot onto the station. 

“Aria wants to see you,” grumbled the turian, his assault rifle held tightly in front of him. It looked like he was ready to shoot at any moment. 

“Well that’s convenient,” replied Mire dryly. “Because we want to see her.” The guards didn’t have anything else to say, and led them through the streets of Omega towards Afterlife. Laurel’s heart began to thump as they were led away from the main floor of the nightclub to a room below, darkened and balmy with heat. The red illumination threw an uncanny light onto the slim shape of Aria, her legs crossed and arms thrown out on the sofa. As if to say,  _ I’ve barely any time for you.  _ None of them said anything for a moment, each thinking the same thing. Aria was the first to speak. 

“A little late, don’t you think?” Grizz and Bray were behind them, closer than Laurel first thought, and they rammed the stocks of their guns into each of their upper backs. Forced to the ground, agony erupted across Laurel’s shoulders as she curled in pain on the ground. She glanced up to see two other guards beside Aria, stepping only slightly into the red light.

“You’ve got some nerve, coming back to  _ my  _ station,” began Aria, her voice clipped. “Unless you have my money with you, I suggest you leave quickly before I change my mind.” Laurel didn’t believe that for a second. She knew Aria would have them killed without a hint of remorse. Mire cleared his throat awkwardly. 

“Aria…we’ve come back to get your help…” Laurel felt Marik wince beside her; not a good line to open up with. Aria snorted. 

“You always were a slimy little weasel, Mire. Shoot them all.” 

“WAIT!” yelled Laurel, getting up. Grizz raised his gun to hit her again, but Aria held up a slender hand. 

“Explain, human. Fast.” 

“It was Hobbs and Banks that betrayed you,” she began, trying to keep her voice level despite her pounding heart. “They’d been in contact with Scott – his real name Stefan Jensen - all along. I knew Jensen – he was my superior officer during the First Contact War. He betrayed me and framed me for his crime-”

“Assuming this  _ dreary  _ story will go somewhere – may I ask what crime?” asked Aria, her voice silky smooth. There was a huge lump in Laurel’s throat. 

“It’s irrelevant,” she retorted. “He recognised me during the high stakes quasar. He knew that I was a threat and tried to kill Marik and I. We were forced to flee. We knew this would make us look like traitors-”

“It certainly did,” cut in Aria again, standing up to walk right in front of Laurel. “How can I be sure that you’re not just lying to me?” 

“What would be the point if I was?” replied Laurel, meeting Aria’s pitiless blue eyes. That seemed to make her think, if only for a brief moment. 

“You want my help? What for?” Aria asked. “You seem capable.” 

“Find Jensen,” said Laurel. 

“I’ve been hunting that son of a bitch for a long time now. What leads have you acquired that I haven’t?” 

“Bekenstein,” came a muffled voice to the right of Laurel. Aria’s head snapped to look at Mire. 

“How the fuck would you just happen to know that?” she barked. Mire got up from his crumpled position on the ground to look at her properly. 

“Anise Carter,” he said. “An agent for Cerberus. When I thought Laurel and Marik betrayed us, I tailed Laurel, which eventually led me to Carter,  _ her  _ sister.”

“I  _ know  _ Jensen’s real name and I know he belongs to Cerberus,” Aria interrupted, her voice dripping with exasperation.  “He has tried to muscle in on Omega before – without success of course. Cerberus keeps trying and they’ll keep losing as a result.” 

“What I’m saying is that Anise Carter gave me his location – where he  _ lives _ . Where his ‘assets’ are kept – not where Cerberus is based. Has a huge mansion on Bekenstein. Probably armed to the teeth,” continued Mire. 

“So Carter gave you this information because…?” Aria said slowly. 

“She’s obviously gone behind his back,” cut in Laurel. “I don’t trust her, but she somehow got the blackbox to me. She knows how dangerous it was for her to do so – both for her and me.” 

“A krogan bounty hunter has been after us all. It must be Jensen’s doing,” Mire added. Aria folded her arms, looking at the ground as she started to pace. 

“A  _ krogan  _ bounty hunter?” she said, sudden exasperation in her voice. Mire and Laurel exchanged glances between each other. Aria paced back and forth for a while, leaving them all in suspended silence. When she finally stopped pacing and contemplating she turned to them, resolution in her eyes. 

“So what’s your plan?” she then spoke again, making them all flinch, her voice waspish. 

“Plan?” said Mire dumbly. 

“YES. Plan? You think raiding Jensen’s mansion on Bekenstein is going to  _ work _ ?” 

“Yeah,” replied Mire. “Yeah, we do. It’s where his personal assets are kept. It’s where we’ll hit him and Cerberus where it hurts.” Aria stared at both Mire and Laurel, observing them deeply, narrowing her eyes. 

“We do this my way,” she finally announced. “It’s about time someone handed Jensen’s ass to him. If for any second I doubt you, there’ll be nothing left of you. Clear?” 

“Crystal,” replied Laurel, meeting Aria’s cold glare. When they were allowed to stand back up, she felt the warmth of Marik’s talons, suddenly enclosed in hers. 

* * *

They weren’t yellow. Not anymore. They were amber. Ochre. Russet. No longer piercing, but soft, full of gentleness. 

“Deus,” Marik told her. She tested it on her tongue, trying to pronounce it correctly. They lay side by side, waiting for Bekenstein. Waiting on a fighter piloted by Mire and one of Aria’s other sheep. It was the one sofa, but it was large and soft. Bekenstein was on the other side of the galaxy so it meant lots of jumps between relays, as well as a steady four-hour trip to the system where it resided. Deus curled a talon underneath her chin, the other coiling a strand of hers round his other. 

“I came back to try…. again,” she whispered. She still had trouble figuring out turian facial tics as she stared into his intense eyes. 

“Laurel…don’t,” he whispered back. 

“I know I didn’t speak to you for months….” She started again. His chitinous features reflected a mild sheen as she looked at him. 

“Laurel….” He sighed, his talons still on her chin and in her hair. “I’m just glad you’re alive.” She left it at that, despite wanting to talk more. Wanting to tell him that things had changed. She felt better. She felt like for once, she had a shot at a better life. It wasn’t the best time. She realised she wanted a life with him in it. He had told her the shortened version of his name. Deus. Would he do so if he were still sure about his decision? 

“Try and get some sleep,” he said to her softly. “This is going to be tough.” She nodded, and closed her eyes, as he wrapped his arms round her tightly. 

* * *

  
According to Anise’s intel given to Mire, Jensen’s mansion lay southeast of Milgrom, Bekenstein’s capital. Termed as the ‘human’s Illium’, many companies sought the planet to produce high quality entertainment and goods. All that Laurel knew about it, was that it was home to the rich – the extremely rich. It was the perfect tax-dodging haven for corrupt mega-corporations, and now it was influenced by other species after it had gained popularity with the rest of the galaxy. Same shit, different planet. Not that the planet wasn’t beautiful, of course. It had comfortable temperatures, soft skies and sunsets that could rival Earth’s. Mire called through to Aria.

“ETA is twenty minutes. How do you want to play this?” Laurel and Deus had moved into the cockpit. 

“Leave it to me,” said Aria, her voice tight. “Just get us to Milgrom.” It was painfully silent for the last hour, as they went through docking clearance and half a dozen other procedures that were very clearly there to make a profit. The docking fee was already costing them an arm and a leg but Aria was unconcerned by this. She had a bulge in her jaw and her biotics flared occasionally. Laurel felt concerned – would she spare Jensen? Milgrom was a capital much like any other, filled with tall, smooth skyscrapers and thronging with people. Mostly humans, but these days more and more races had joined the crowds. Laurel could feel the balmy heat settle on her skin quickly as they walked through the capital’s streets. Aria’s extra backup stayed with the ship, while Mire and Pazik joined them. They took a skycab, half an hour journey outside the city, a short walk away from where Jensen’s mansion lay. Laurel could feel the nerves more intensely, her knees bobbing up and down in the car, her hands clammy and writhing. Occasionally Deus would squeeze her arm, bringing her some small semblance of relief. She had to admit the countryside was beautiful – more abundant than she’d ever seen. It was covered with cinder cones, lava domes and maars, shaping the land as rutted without being mountainous. Their skycar shot past these domes where beautiful wildflowers grew on the verges. Huge unending forests continued beyond her eyesight.  So much was untouched by humans, something that was very uncommon back on Earth. It was a place of beauty: a shame it served megalomaniacal interests. 

“Here’s the place,” said Mire quietly. Aria ordered the cab to stop above half a dozen conifer-like trees, Aria could see the white, flat surface of a mansion - a mansion that boasted absolute wealth. After paying the cab driver, they found a small, hidden clearing. A bird chattered in the distance as Aria turned to address them. Laurel tried to quell her growing feelings of attachment.  _ Why does this place have to be so beautiful,  _ she thought. 

“Plan?” asked Mire, shuffling his feet and checking his shotgun (the tenth time, Laurel noted). 

“Do as I say,” said Aria. “We don’t know the layout of this place, but I’m willing to bet it’s the same as most of the buildings on this planet.” 

“Why’d you say that?” asked Deus, his tone and posture displaying a sense of ease and confidence. 

“Having many contacts on this planet, as well as a damn  _ good  _ information broker, I’d say I might’ve had a little insight into the schematics of Bekenstein’s houses. Being a new human colony, despite the wealth, does not allow for people to go wild as house designers. Especially on the outskirts here – the planet is not fully known yet. I can guarantee this is similar to the mansions I have here,” said Aria, drawing up a 3D map of a similar looking estate, showing both the grounds and the inside of the building. 

“You don’t know that for sure,” said Deus, unimpressed by her information, folding his arms. “Humans are known for their, um, individuality. Not everything is the same – and someone like Jensen would-”

“True,” cut in Aria, her voice like acid. “But I’m not going to waste time on figuring out his taste for interior design. We get a good look from the outside, we can see if it fits the other profiles for Bekenstein’s prefab estate designs. Then – we split up. I want you two-” She pointed a slim blue finger at Mire and Pazik – “to go round the exterior and disable any cams. And any security guards – as long as you do it quietly.” Pazik and Mire looked disappointed by the instructions to keep stealthy. “If you keep quiet, then you’ll make this easier. If not – you risk getting shot. And I’m not gonna stick around to nurse you back to health.” 

“And what’s our job?” asked Laurel. 

“Us three will scout the front. Mire, you’ll message me when you’ve finished the job out the back.” It seemed an easy enough plan to begin with, but by the time they walked through uneven land and through dense woodland, they saw towering walls protecting Jensen’s estate. Security cameras were on either side of the main gate, which showed a long tarmac pathway leading up to the glass double doors. All of them wore various pieces of mostly light armour, with Pazik having the heaviest. Fortunately, as a salarian, he was adept with technology and hacking the security cameras and gates were no obstacle. One by one, they filtered into the mansion’s grounds. 

“Fucking huge for a prefab,” Mire was murmuring as they found a place to crouch behind a manicured bush, surveying the large estate. 

“And obnoxious,” muttered Laurel. She noticed a flashing light to her right, seeing it was Mire’s omni tool. Something occurred to her. 

“Mire, can you open a comm channel to my sister? To Anise Carter?” she whispered, making Aria’s head snap towards her. 

“We’re not here to have a family reunion,” she snapped. 

“And we’re not here to just fulfill your lust for revenge,” Laurel countered.

“It’s too risky anyway,” replied Mire. Laurel shook her head in irritation, stepping back and beginning to feel fed up already. She should’ve known that this would’ve been hard. 

“Is it? If we can get her to tell us an easier way in,” she continued. Laurel felt Deus’s uneasiness behind her, his flanged voice partially humming and his posture now poised in anxiety. Suddenly she felt a hand grab the visible material of her shirt above her armour. Aria’s blue face came a little too close for comfort as Laurel felt her other hand draw her pistol and press it to her temple. Deus moved visibly in the background. 

“Here’s what we’re gonna do,  _ human,”  _ she spat. Pazik and Mire pointed their guns at Deus, who was about to lug Aria into the air. 

“We’re gonna go in – kill anyone we see without being killed – shoot Jensen in the head and pick up what’s rightfully mine. If you wanted to go play hero, then you shouldn’t have asked me to get involved.” Whatever came next, Laurel was glad it was the krogan bounty hunter who had showed up behind them. He didn’t say anything, obviously enraged by his failures so far and started firing concussive rounds here, there, and everywhere. Pazik was struck by one of them, breaking his shields completely as he fell to the floor. Aria whipped round to face the krogan, her body now glowing with biotic power. Laurel instinctively grabbed Deus’s hand and pulled him towards the mansion. 

“Laurel, it’s suicide,” Deus hissed as she made a beeline towards the front door. “We have no plan, no strategy, no way of knowing what’s inside-”

“Deus, please,” she said, pulling him round the side of the house, looking for another entrance. 

“I’m not going to lose you!” he said, louder now, his hand tightening on hers. 

“You’re not,” she replied. They could hear the cacophony behind them – she only hoped that Aria held her own against the bounty hunter. Or did she? Honestly Aria as an opponent was no less deadlier than the krogan. Thankfully there was a doorway to the side of the house near the back, this one had been left open. Jensen must be at home. In the far distance, she heard the sound of a biotic flare exploding. There were some distant shouts and yells. She pulled out her pistol as they ran through what looked like a utility room, looking into the next room through another door that had a window. No one there, thankfully. Deus had his pistol ready in his talons as he nodded to her, the first to leave the room checking to the right and left of him. When the signal was clear, he waved his hand and she moved forward, following him. His military training was showing now, probably having kicked in a long time. Laurel had to admit she was rusty and the weapon shook in her hands – although it shook for various other reasons also. They bolted through various huge rooms and down corridors to find an elevator with a terminal. 

“Perfect,” muttered Laurel as she accessed it. After some digging round, with Deus guarding the front, his feet unable to keep still, she found something. 

“His study,” said Laurel as they got into the elevator and chose their selected floor.  _ How many floors did one need for a home?  _

“Laurel….” began Deus, breathing in a large breath through his nostrils.  _ Oh no, here comes the turian lecture.  _ “What are you looking for? Do you think we can just cart him off like we’re C-Sec?” She faltered a little, seeing the fear in his eyes. 

“I…we need to find Anise,” she said. She didn’t know what to do, she was running on adrenaline. She was tempted to shoot Jensen in both legs and cart him off to Alliance headquarters. Was it ever that simple, though? It began to occur to her that it wouldn’t be, that perhaps he had bribed Alliance officials. Maybe it was extortion – selling his weapons to them for a lower price. 

“We have to find his personal terminal – anything with a record of his dealings, for evidence,” she said quickly. “The blackbox, I feel, isn’t enough evidence. Also we have no idea what that salarian doctor might've done with it, or whether it even works.” Deus gave her a nod, clearly unhappy with her way of thinking. She led the way, craning her head around walls looking for guards or anyone else. The place was unusually silent, and they hadn’t come across anyone since they’d entered the house. Laurel almost could hear Deus’s mind churning away in worry. Both of them could still hear the cacophony come from outside – no doubt Aria and the krogan battling each other. Finally, on the third floor they came to Jensen’s personal quarters. Unfortunately, Jensen must’ve anticipated her, on account of the fight outside. Laurel saw her sister as soon as they entered the room. 

“Anise?” she said, seeing her sister stand in front of the bedroom’s large window. Her sister looked the worst Laurel had ever seen her. Her clothes were ruffled and torn in some places, her hair dishevelled. She had bruising around her left eye and cheek. 

“I’m so sorry,” said Anise, her voice trembling. Tears rolled down her cheeks. The unmistakable click of guns were heard from behind them and in front, beside Anise, stood Jensen. He was dressed casually – he can’t have expected them, at least not today in any case. Laurel’s eyes flicked over to another door in the corner of the room – probably where he’d come from. He held up a pistol, pointing it at her head directly.  _ Ah, this feels familiar.  _

“Care to explain why you’ve broken into my house, Westfahl? And why you’ve brought Aria T’Loak with you?” he said, a sneer creased under his nose. “Not that it was successful. You triggered the security as soon as your mercs hacked my cameras.” 

“Evidence,” replied Laurel, trying to keep herself calm. 

“Yes, about that….” said Jensen. “Anise here was working for me all along… Shame she had to go spoil it all.”  _ Why did you do it, Anise?  _ Her sister was opening crying now, the tears unable to stop as she stood there trembling. 

“Drop your weapons,” said a female voice from behind them, presumably one of his bodyguards. 

“Not until I have answers first,” snapped Laurel. The bodyguard slammed the barrel of her gun right between Laurel’s shoulders, making her cry out in pain. Inhaling deeply, she placed her gun on the floor, catching Deus’s eye as she did so. 

“So I presume the blackbox is still in your possession?” sneered Jensen, having lowered his gun but was now aiming it towards Anise. “If I’m right then why would you come here?” 

“Not just us we’re here for -  _ Aria _ ,” filled in Deus, his voice growled with barely concealed contempt. 

“Oh,” smirked Jensen, holding the pistol higher now, aiming at Anise’s chest. 

“The money you stole from Aria,” said Laurel. “You’re a bloody idiot.” 

“And so are you, Westfahl,” snapped Jensen. “For coming here in the first place. You hope to have your name cleared and me locked up? It’s over –  _ fourteen years  _ over.” 

“I have questions – and you need to give me the answers,” she said, keeping her voice steady despite her thumping heart. 

“You’re in no fucking position to demand anything,” was all he said, before moving his head ever so slightly. What happened next was so quick Laurel barely blinked. Deus next to her had whipped round, disarming the guard behind them before she could shoot them dead. Anise leapt towards Jensen, struggling to disarm him. 

“Laurel!” she cried, before he then hit her in the face, making her fall to the floor. Before Jensen could shoot her, Deus aimed with the newly acquired rifle from the guard and shot Jensen clean in the shoulder. He was thrown back violently onto the floor cursing, blood immediately soaking his shirt. Yet he kept the gun in his hand still, and let off a round – straight into Anise’s head. 

  
  



End file.
